UC-NRLF 


cWTter  'PrkfwrdGaton 


In  Berkshire  Fields 


*    T 


Winter  is  richer  in  color  masses  than  spring  or  sumn., 


In  Berkshire  Fields 

WALTER  PRICHARD  EATON 

I) 

Illustrated  by 
WALTER  KING  STONE 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 


:^-l 

English 
1 


ENGLiSW   I 


IN  BERKSHIRE  FIELDS 


Copyright,    1920,  by  Harper  &   Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1920 

G-U 


TO 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  GIBSON 


43C521 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD xi 

LANDLORD  TO  THE  BIRDS      .....     i 

JIM  CROW 27 

THE  CHEERFUL  CHICKADEE 55 

THE  MENACE  FROM  ABOVE 77 

BY  INLAND  WATERS 100 

POKING  AROUND  FOR  BIRDS'  NESTS 122 

THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 151 

FORGOTTEN  ROADS .158 

FROM  A  BERKSHIRE  CABIN 170 

LITTLE  FOLKS  THAT  GNAW 185 

THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK .212 

FOXES  AND  OTHER  NEIGHBORS .234 

IN  PRAISE  OF  TREES 262 

ENJOYING  THE  INFLUENZA •          285 

ADVENTURES  WITH  AN  Ax •          291 

WEEDS  ABOVE  THE  SNOW          3<>i 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

WINTER  is  RICHER  IN  COLOR  MASSES  THAN  SPRING  OR  SUMMER     Frontispiece 

A  RAIN-POOL   BATH   AMONG   THE   ROCKS Page            I 

TREE-SPARROWS  FEEDING  IN  THE  SNOW   .......  Facing  p.     4 

CHICKADEES  IN  A  JAPANESE  PRINT "         10 

JENNIE  WREN  BRINGS  SCORES  OF  GRUBS  TO  THE  NEST       .  Page       13 

THE    MARTIN-HOUSE "             19 

THE    PLAY    OF    THE   CHIMNEY-SWIFTS    AT    TWILIGHT          ...  "             21 

TAPPING  AWAY  AT  A  FROZEN  BIT  OF  SUET Facing  p.    22 

A  PHCEBE  NESTING  UNDER  THE  PORCH  EAVES "         24 

WINTER  OR   SUMMER,  THE  CROW  HAS  HIS  PLACE  IN  THE 

PROSPECT Page          2J 

A  FLEDGLING  CROW 29 

CRYING  INCESSANTLY  FOR  FOOD 31 

HE  WOULD  FOLLOW  UP  THE  ROWS  OF  FRESH-TURNED  EARTH  33 
HlS  LIKING  FOR  BRIGHT  OBJECTS  IS  SOMETIMES  A  NUISANCE  35 
SINKING  HIS  CLAWS  INTO  THE  WOOL  AND  CAWING  DELIGHT- 
EDLY         37 

A  GREAT  HORNED  OWL  FLYING  LOW  IN  THE  TREES    ...  47 

THE    CROW   IN    TURN    IS    ATTACKED    BY    SMALLER    BIRDS      .       .  Facing  p.      50 

WINGING  CHEERILY  AGAINST  THE  WHITENED  LANDSCAPE     .  Page       55 

OTHER  BIRDS  GO  SOUTH  IN  WINTER — THE  CHICKADEE  REMAINS  57 

THE  FIRST  SNOWFALL  BRINGS  THE  CHICKADEE  TO  OUR  WINDOWS  59 

THE    CHICKADEE,    OR    BLACK-CAPPED   TITMOUSE 6 1 

HE    MAKES   LIGHT    OF   THE    RIGORS    OF    WINTER 63 

ON  BLACKBERRY  STALKS  BY  GRAY  STONE  WALL  THE  CHICKA- 
DEES   ARE    CONSPICUOUS    OBJECTS 67 


vui ILLUSTRATIONS 

PERCHED  ON  THE  END  OF  A  BARE  TWIG  AS  IN  A  JAPANESE 

PRINT       .      .      .    ...      .      ...      .     ...... Page          69 

IN  THE   HUSHED   NAVES   OF   THE   FOREST "             71 

IN    SEARCH    OF   FOOD    IN    A    WINTER   CORN-FIELD          ....  "             75 

THE  DUCK-HAWK  NESTS  ON  THE  LEDGES  OF  ROCK  PRECIPICES  ' '             83 

THE  RED-TAILED  HAWK  DROPPING  FROM  HIS  AERIAL  PATHWAY  ' '  8.5 
THE  SPARROW-HAWK  IS  A  PRETTY  LITTLE  FALCON  THAT 

DOES  MORE  GOOD  THAN  HARM 87 

THE  MARSH-HAWK 89 

THE  GREAT  HORNED  OWL,  OR  "  SIX-HOOTER" "         93 

THE  SNOWY  OWL 95 

THE  DIM  FORM  OF  A  SCREECH-OWL  OUTLINED  AGAINST  THE 

TWILIGHT   SKY Facing  p.     9g 

YOU  MIGHT  HAVE  SUPPOSED  THE  MERGANSERS  WERE  MERELY 

PLAYING  A  GAME COASTING  DOWN  THE  CURRENT    .     .  "       IO2 

WOOD-DUCKS  ARE  FEWER  IN  NUMBER    THAN    THEY    USED 

TO  BE Page  IO5 

THE  BLACK  DUCK  IS  THE  DUCK  MOST  OFTEN  SEEN  ON  INLAND 

WATERS ~  \  "  108 

THE  GREAT  BLUE  HERON  SUGGESTS  A  JAPANESE  PRINT  .  IIO 
THE  LITTLE  GREEN  HERON  HAS  SHOWN  A  STURDY  ABILITY 

TO   LOOK   AFTER   HIMSELF Facing  p.   112 

EVERY  COUNTRY  BOY  KNOWS  THE  SPOTTED  SANDPIPER  .  .  Page  116 
THE  KINGFISHER  IS  EXTREMELY  DECORATIVE  AS  HE  PERCHES 

HIGH  OVER  POND  OR  RIVER "  119 

HOUSES  AND  BARNS  ATTRACT  THE  WRENS  AND  SWALLOWS.  "  127 

THE  ORCHARD  HAUNTS  OF  THE  WOODPECKER  IN  SPRING  .  "  133 

SOUNDING  HIS  SWEET,  SAD,  ANDANTE  CALL  TO  HIS  MATE  .  ";;  143 
THE  BLACKBIRDS  MAKE  LIVELY  THE  AIR  OVER  THE  SEDGY 

BORDERS  OF  STREAMS  AND  PONDS  .  .  .  *  .  .  *  "  *45 
THE  COTTONTAIL  RABBIT  BENEATH  A  TENT  OF  SWAMP 

SHRUBBERY "  187 

A  VARYING  HARE  UNDER  HIS  SNOW-LADEN,  FAIRY  ROOF  .  "  .  19! 

THE    FAMILIAR,    AGGRESSIVE,    FEARLESS,    QUARRELSOME    RED 

SQUIRREL "          195 

A  CHIPMUNK   WAITING   EXPECTANTLY   FOR    BREAKFAST       .      .  "           199 


ILLUSTRATIONS  ix 
THE  WOODCHUCK  is  THE  LARGEST  AND  LAZIEST  OF  COMMON 

RODENTS Page       2OI 

THE  SHORT-TAILED,   BURROWING  MICE  EAT  CORN  AND  OTHER 

GRAIN    IN   THE    SHOCK "          203 

THE  PORCUPINE  is  ARMORED  AGAINST  ALL  ENEMIES  ...  "       207 

SITTING  ON  HIS  HAUNCHES  IN  A  FIELD  OF  DAISIES    ...  "       215 

HlS  BURROW  USUALLY  COMMANDS  A  WIDE  PROSPECT      .    .  "       219 

YOU  WILL  SEE  A  SHREWD  FACE  AND  FAT  BODY  UP  ON  THE  WALL  "       221 

A  TROPHY  OF  THE  CHASE "       225 

SUNNING  HIMSELF  IN  LAZY  CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  LAND- 
SCAPE    .     . "       227 

A  FAVORITE  HAUNT  IS  THE  NETWORK  OF  ROOTS  AT  THE  BASE 

OF  A  HUGE  TREE "       22Q 

A  DENIZEN  OF  THE  DEEP  WOODS "       23! 

GREEN  MEADOWS,  DAISY-STARRED,  INVITE  THE  WOODCHUCK 

FROM   HIS   LAIR Facing  p.  2$2 

REYNARD  SPRINGS  ON  A  MOUSE 238 

A   MIDNIGHT    VIGIL Page       240 

A    DASH    ACROSS   THE    OPEN    BY    AN    AIR-LINE    TRACK       ...  "          244 
THE  WILDCAT  IS  THE  SHYEST  ANIMAL  OF  OUR  EASTERN  FOR- 
ESTS,   AND   YET  THE   FIERCEST   AND   MOST   FORMIDABLE     .  248 
THE    OTTER    WILL    FRISK    ON   THE    RIVER-BANK  LIKE  A  PUPPY  Facing  p.  2$2 
IF    HE    IS    NOT   FRIGHTENED,    THE    SKUNK    IS   QUITE    INOFFEN- 
SIVE   AND    HARMLESS 254 

THE  LITTLE  WEASEL  IS  A  CUNNING  AND  ELUSIVE  MARAUDER  256 

TREES  ARE  THE  INSTINCTIVE  REFUGE  OF  THE  'COON      .     .  Page     258 

THE     MASSIVE     TRUNK    OF    A    HORNBEAM     AGAINST    THE    RED 

AND    GRAY    OF    A    DISTANT    SNOWY    MOUNTAIN     ....  265 

THE  SYCAMORE  GAINS  A  WINTER  CHARM  OVER  OTHER  TREES 

BECAUSE  OF  ITS  MOTTLED  BARK 267 

SLENDER  OLIVE  POPLARS  RISING  TO  FOREST  HEIGHT  CROWDED 

FROM  BEHIND  BY  THE  HEMLOCKS  OF  THE  SWAMP  ...  270 
A  PINE  BEFITS  A  MOUNTAINOUS  LANDSCAPE,  A  PLACE  OF 

ROCKS  AND  WINDY  SWEEPS *««'**  *•  276 

IN  WINTER  THE  CONTRAST  BETWEEN  THE  LOWER  IRREGULAR 

APPLE-TREES   AND   THE    GREEN    PINES   IS   CHARMING    .      .  Page       277 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THROUGH  THE  CURLING   SPRAY  OF  THE   WEED-TOPS  SOME 

WHITE  PATH  INTO  THE  QUIETUDE  INVITES  YOUR  FEET     Page     2/8 
ALONG  THE  BACK  ROAD  A  DOUBLE  ROW  OF  CEDARS  MARCH 

ALONG  BESIDE  YOU  AS  YOU  TRAMP   .......    "     280 

WHITE   BIRCHES  ON  THE  CREST  OF  THE   RIDGE   SHOOTING 

THEIR   SLENDERNESS   UPWARD      .      ...      .      .      .      .      .    Facing  p.  280 

THE   GREEN   DOMED  CROWN   OF   ELM    RISING   STATELY   OUT  OF 

CLUSTERED    FOLIAGE ^      .      ..        "          282 

MY   PASTURE   CLIMBS   STEEPLY   TO   THE   FOREST    WITH   EVER- 
INCREASING    ABRUPTNESS "          302 

A  YOUNG  MOON  HOLDING  IN  ITS  CRESENT  THE  VAGUE  WRAITH 

OF   THE   FULL   SPHERE          Page       307 


FOREWORD 

PRE-EMINENT  in  the  field  of  so-called  nature-writ- 
ing is,  and  should  be,  the  scientific  naturalist  or  bota- 
nist, when  he  can  bring  to  his  task  literary  grace  and 
charm.  Nothing  is  more  important  than  an  addi- 
tion to  human  knowledge,  even  when  its  immediate, 
or  even  its  most  remotely  conceivable,  bearing  seems 
trivial  enough.  No  laughter  is  so  much  like  the 
crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot  as  that  excited  some- 
times in  certain  people  by  the  spectacle  of  a  patient 
scientist  pursuing  his  minutiae.  Yet  there  are  many 
among  those  who  write  for  whom  biological  or 
botanical  science  is,  and  must  remain,  impossible  of 
attainment,  and  yet  who  find  a  delight  and  refresh- 
ment in  wandering  among  the  materials  of  such 
science,  even,  perhaps,  in  speculating,  now  and 
then,  on  their  own  account,  from  their  own  observed 
data.  This  proceeding  adds  nothing  to  the  sum 
total  of  human  knowledge,  but  it  stimulates  in  its 
practitioners  a  certain  kindly  curiosity  and,  like 
golf,  it  at  least  keeps  them  out  in  the  open  air.  The 
present  writer  scarcely  needs  to  confess  himself  such 
a  one.  Nothing  is  farther  from  his  intention,  as 
nothing  is  farther  from  his  ability,  than  to  attempt 
a  natural  history,  even  of  the  Berkshire  Hills  which 
surround  his  house  and  too  insistently  invite  his 
feet  to  wander.  Yet  it  is  just  because  he  has  found 
so  much  delight  and  stimulation,  amid  a  life  other- 


xii  FOREWORD 


wise  mainly  occupied,  in  the  doubtless  unscientific 
and  haphazard  observation  of  woodland  folk  and 
winged,  in  the  personalities  of  trees  and  the  retreats 
of  wild  flowers,  that  he  has  been  moved  to  think 
such  avocation  cannot  be  wholly  evil,  and  that  the 
scientists  who  deal  with  lovely  or  fascinating  sen- 
suous things  must  expect  those  lovely  or  fascinating 
things  to  be  approached  from  other  angles  than 
theirs.  One  who  is  not  a  scientist  does  not  delib- 
erately toy  with  a  40,000- volt  high-potential  cur- 
rent. But  you  or  I  may,  .1  trust,  explore  for  the 
Cypripedium  spectabile  in  its  swamp,  or  track  a  wea- 
sel over  its  snowy  rocks,  in  a  spirit  of  pure  advent- 
ure, in  the  quest,  let  us  say,  for  the  essential  flavor 
of  the  wilderness,  which  may  come  in  the  odor  of  a 
flower  or  the  note  of  a  bird  or  the  imaginative  reali- 
zation on  our  part  of  how  the  world  looked  last 
night  to  the  animal  which  tracked  warily  here, 
searching  for  its  prey. 

In  such  a  spirit,  at  any  rate,  these  chapters  have 
been  written,  records  of  sometimes  purposeful  but 
more  often  idle  wanderings  through  the  fields  and 
woods,  beside  the  streams  and  over  the  steep  slopes, 
of  the  Berkshire  Hills,  with  here  and  there  a  record 
or  a  memory  of  wandering  elsewhere.  Those  of  us 
who  live  in  these  hills,  wisely,  the  year  through,  and 
know  their  rugged  winter  moods  as  well  as  their 
softer  summer  aspect,  love  the  Berkshires  less  for 
their  softness  than  their  wildness,  less  for  their  val- 
leys than  their  heights,  less  for  their  well-groomed 
towns  than  their  half -abandoned  upland  hamlets 
and  their  miles  of  forest  where  to-day  moose  and 
wildcat  roam,  and  even  there  is  recent  evidence  of  a 


FOREWORD  xiii 


timber- wolf.  It  is  the  writer's  hope  —  a  modest 
one,  surely — that  other  lovers  of  that  wildness  which 
has  largely  disappeared  from  our  Eastern  country- 
side, and  which  is  such  a  refreshment  to  the  spirit 
when  we  can  get  back  to  it,  will  be  glad,  at  least,  to 
know  that  the  foxes  still  bark  and  the  deer  browse 
up  here  in  our  hills,  and  each  year,  in  Berkshire 
County,  we  kill  almost  a  score  of  wildcats. 

Many  of  the  chapters  that  follow  have  appeared 
in  Harper's  Magazine,  from  which  they  are  re- 
printed with  some  additions.  The  editors  of  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  The  New  Republic,  and  The  Boston 
Transcript  have  kindly  given  their  permission,  also, 
for  the  inclusion  of  certain  other  chapters  originally 
printed  in  those  publications.  The  author  regrets 
that  the  absence  of  Mr.  Stone  with  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
in  France  has  prevented  his  co-operation  in  selecting 
and  arranging  the  illustrations. 

W.  P.  E. 
TWIN  FIRES, 
SHEFFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS,  1920. 


In  Berkshire  Fields 


A  rain-pool  bath  among  the  rocks 

IN    BERKSHIRE   FIELDS 

LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS 

I  WONDER  if  any  reader  of  this  chapter  was 
ever  present  when  a  state  legislature  considered 
the  question  of  licensing  cats.  If  so,  he  must 
have  been  impressed  anew  with  several  facts,  one 
of  them  being  that  in  spite  of  all  the  information 
disseminated  by  the  ornithological  and  biological 
bureaus  of  the  Federal  and  state  governments,  and 
by  other  ornithologists,  regarding  the  economic 
value  of  our  common  birds,  the  average  man  is  still 
blind  to  the  importance  of  the  subject.  Of  course, 
one  doesn't  expect  a  state  legislator  to  be  swayed 
by  sentiment;  one  expects  him,  rather,  to  yield 
to  economic  pressure!  Yet  when  the  question  of 
establishing  a  cat  license,  as  we  now  have  a  dog 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


license,  comes  up,  the  only  economic  argument 
your  average  legislator  can  see  is  on  the  other  side. 
The  cats  catch  rats  in  the  farmer's  barn.  We 
mustn't  do  anything  to  lose  the  rural  vote!  The 
congressional  wag  make's  a  funny  speech  about 
pretty  pussy  and  the  old  maids  coming  down-town 
to  get  their  licenses,  the  legislative  assembly  titil- 
lates with  mirth,  and  the  bill  is  laid  on  the  table. 
It  would  all  be  rather  amusing  if  it  weren't  so 
serious. 

How  serious  it  is  a  very  brief  survey  of  the 
figures  will  show.  The  figures,  too,  may  well  be 
taken  from  reports  by  Edward  Howe  Forbush, 
State  Ornithologist  of  Massachusetts,  whose  own 
legislature  has  tabled  a  bill  to  license  cats,  with  the 
usual  display  of  Sunday-supplement  humor  (but 
the  fight  is  not  yet  over).  Dr.  Forbush  bases  his 
figures  on  the  reports  of  over  a  hundred  observers 
throughout  the  state.  "If  we  assume,"  he  says, 
"that  the  average  cat  on  the  farm  kills  but  ten 
birds  in  a  year,  and  that  there  are  but  two  cats  on 
each  farm  in  Massachusetts,  we  have  in  round 
numbers  70,000  cats,  killing  700,000  birds  an- 
nually." As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  many 
more  than  70,000  cats  in  Massachusetts,  even  on 
the  farms,  and  those  which  live  near  the  open,  even 
in  the  suburbs,  take  a  toll  of  bird  life  that  is  prob- 
ably in  excess  of  ten  birds  a  year.  A  cat  belonging 
to  a  neighbor  of  mine,  not  a  farm  cat,  but  a  pam- 
pered house  puss,  brought  twenty-six  birds  to  the 
veranda  last  summer,  and  I  have  to  wage  a  constant 
warfare  on  half  a  dozen  sleek,  well-fed  house  cats 
which  daily  try  to  catch  birds  in  my  garden.  Doc- 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  3 

tor  Forbush  is  too  careful  and  conservative.  The 
toll  of  bird  life  due  to  farm  cats  alone  in  the  single 
state  of  Massachusetts  is  probably  in  excess  of 
1,000,000  a  year.  To  this  huge  total  we  must 
probably  add  another  1,000,000  for  the  toll  taken 
by  the  domestic  pets  and  stray  cats  and  their 
descendants,  now  gone  wild.  Few  people  have  any 
conception  of  the  number  of  cats  gone  wild  there 
are  in  our  woods. 

Now,  undoubtedly,  if  cats  were  licensed  as  dogs 
are,  and  men  appointed  to  dispose  of  the  strays, 
there  would  be  a  great  and  immediate  diminution 
of  the  feline  population,  still  more  noticeable  in  a 
second  generation,  for  the  females  would  pay  a 
higher  fee.  The  cats  which  remained  would  be 
those  valued  and  cared  for  as  pets  (and  if  a  person 
isn't  willing  to  pay  one  or  two  dollars  a  year  for 
his  or  her  pet,  his  attachment  isn't  very  strong) 
or  else  those  cats  valuable  as  destroyers  of  rodents. 
The  stray  cat,  that  has  to  hunt  for  a  living,  would 
be  eliminated,  as  would  the  present  excess  of  half- 
stray  house  and  barn  cats.  There  would  be  little 
hardship  to  the  farmer,  because  a  good  barn  cat 
earns  its  license  fee;  and,  besides,  very  few  cats 
are  as  effective  as  traps,  anyhow,  as  careful  experi- 
ments have  again  and  again  proved.  Finally,  an 
added  revenue  would  accrue  to  the  state. 

But  why  go  to  all  this  trouble  merely  to  save 
2,000,000  birds  a  year?  asks  the  sentimental  cat- 
lover,  who  would  rather  have  the  cat  than  the  blue- 
birds and  song-sparrows,  because  he  (or  she)  cannot 
pat  a  bluebird,  nor  dangle  a  string  before  its  young. 

The  answer  is,  because  the  birds  help  to  maintain 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


the  balance  in  nature  between  destructive  insects 
and  growing  things,  between  weeds  and  flowers,  and 
any  serious  diminution  in  our  bird  population 
means  a  serious  increase  in  the  ranks  of  our  insect 
and  vegetable  foes.  The  birds  are  among  our  best 
and  most  valuable  friends,  while  the  cat,  artificially 
bred  and  introduced,  does  not  belong  to  the  natural 
scheme  of  things.  A  bluebird,  a  barn-swallow,  a 
screech-owl,  even  a  so-called  " hen-hawk"  (which 
scarcely  touches  hens  at  all)  has  a  definite  economic 
value,  and  its  protection  by  man  from  cats  and 
other  hunters,  on  four  legs  or  two,  from  storms  and 
starvation,  is  as  useful,  and  some  day  we  shall 
realize  as  necessary,  as  catching  rats  in  the  barn 
or  spraying  the  potato-vines.  Indeed,  if  every 
potato-field  could  harbor  a  bevy  of  quail  (and  it 
could  if  we  had  not  been  such  game-hogs  in  America 
for  a  hundred  years)  there  would  be  little  call  for 
Paris  green  or  arsenate  of  lead. 

Again  let  us  quote  figures.  There  are  plenty 
of  them.  The  appeal  to  sentiment  in  order  to 
save  the  birds  is  not  necessary.  The  matter  can 
be  reduced  to  a  cold  business  proposition  for  the 
farmer,  or  for  anybody  else  with  trees  and  a 
garden. 

In  Farmers*  Bulletin  No.  513,  prepared  by  the 
United  States  Bureau  of  Biological  Survey,  it  is 
stated  that  at  a  conservative  estimate  the  common 
tree-sparrow  consumes  a  quarter  of  an  ounce  of 
weed  seeds  a  day.  On  this  basis,  in  the  state  of 
Iowa  alone,  the  bureau  estimates  these  sparrows 
consume  875  tons  of  weed  seeds.  If  you  will  try 
to  imagine  the  acres  upon  acres  which  could  be 


Tree-sparrows  feeding  in  the 


snow 


LANDLORD    TO   THE    BIRDS  s 

sown  to  weeds  with  such  a  pile,  and  the  weeks  upon 
weeks  of  labor  necessary  to  harrow  them  out,  you 
hardly  need  to  be  told  further  that  the  combined 
sparrow  family  (not  including  the  pestiferous  Eng- 
lish sparrow)  probably  saved  the  farmers  of  the 
United  States  in  1910  $89,260,000. 

Doesn't  it  begin  to  be  apparent  why  the  destruc- 
tion of  2,000,000  birds  a  year  in  one  state  alone,  by 
cats,  is  a  serious  affair?  If  all  those  birds  had  been 
sparrows  that  would  mean  a  daily  increase  of 
32,000  pounds  in  the  number  of  weed  seeds  allowed 
to  ripen,  and  possibly  to  germinate,  in  Massa- 
chusetts alone.  Of  course  it  doesn't  mean  quite 
that,  for  many  birds  do  not  live  on  weed  seeds. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  of  them  live  on  even 
more  objectionable  insects  and  tree  pests.  The 
economic  loss  is  very  clear  and  very  serious. 

Here  is  a  paragraph  from  the  same  bulletin 
quoted  above: 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  hungry  birds — and  birds 
are  hungry  most  of  the  time — are  not  content  to  fill  their 
stomachs  with  insects  or  seeds,  but,  after  the  stomach  is 
stuffed  until  it  will  hold  no  more,  continue  to  eat  till  the 
crop  or  gullet  also  is  crammed.  It  is  often  the  case  that 
when  the  stomach  is  opened  and  the  contents  piled  up  the 
pile  is  two  or  three  times  as  large  as  the  stomach  was  when 
filled.  Birds  may  truly  be  said  to  have  healthy  appetites. 
To  show  the  astonishing  capacity  of  birds'  stomachs  and  to 
reveal  the  extent  to  which  man  is  indebted  to  birds  for  the 
destruction  of  noxious  insects,  the  following  facts  are  given 
as  learned  by  stomach  examinations  made  by  assistants  of 
the  Biological  Survey: 

"A  tree-swallow's  stomach  was  found  to  contain  40  entire 
chinch-bugs  and  fragments  of  many  others,  besides  10  other 
species  of  insects.  A  bank-swallow  in  Texas  devoured  68 


6  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

cotton-boll  weevils,  one  of  the  worst  insect  pests  that  ever 
invaded  the  United  States;  and  35  cliff-swallows  had  taken 
an  average  of  18  boll  weevils  each.  Two  stomachs  of  pine- 
siskins  from  Haywards,  California,  contained  1,900  black 
'olive  scales  and  300  plant  lice.  A  killdeer's  stomach  taken 
in  November  in  Texas  contained  over  300  mosquito  larvae. 
A  flicker's  stomach  held  28  white  grubs.  A  night-hawk's 
stomach  collected  in  Kentucky  contained  34  May-beetles, 
the  adult  form  of  white  grubs.  Another  night-hawk  from 
New  York  had  eaten  24  clover-leaf  weevils  and  375  ants. 
Still  another  night-hawk  had  eaten  340  grasshoppers,  52 
bugs,  3  beetles,  2  wasps,  and  a  spider.  A  boat-tailed  grackle 
from  Texas  had  eaten  at  one  meal  about  100  cotton-boll 
worms,  besides  a  few  other  insects.  A  ring-necked  pheasant's 
crop  from  Washington  contained  8,000  seeds  of  chickweed 
and  a  dandelion  head.  More  than  72,000  seeds  have  been 
found  in  a  single  duck  stomach  taken  in  Louisiana  in 
February." 

From  so  brief  a  survey  as  this  of  the  actual,  as- 
certained facts  about  the  habits  and  economic  value 
of  certain  birds,  it  should  at  least  be  apparent  even 
to  a  state  legislator,  one  would  suppose,  that  the 
subject  of  bird  protection  is  important,  worthy 
of  investigation,  not  lightly  to  be  dismissed.  Some 
day  these  gentlemen  will  wake  up,  but  probably 
not  until  public  opinion  wakes  them,  including  the 
opinion  of  those  most  conservative  of  God's  creat- 
ures, the  farmers,  who  for  the  most  part  are  not 
yet  even  dimly  aware  of  how  much  they  owe  to 
birds  and  how  sorely  the  birds  need  protection,  need 
it  more  and  more  every  year.  Our  birds  are  de- 
creasing; our  pests  are  increasing.  And  in  part, 
at  least,  it  is  cause  and  effect,  though  the  increased 
facilities  of  commerce  and  intercourse  have  been 
responsible  for  some  of  our  worst  inflictions. 


LANDLORD    TO   THE    BIRDS  7 

It  is  not  necessary  in  this  chapter  to  discuss  at 
any  length  the  harmful  birds.  They  are  relatively 
few  in  number,  the  worst  being  the  goshawk,  the 
Cooper  and  sharp-shinned  hawks,  which  are  the  only 
ones  that  seriously  raid  poultry.  Bobolinks  are 
harmful  to  the  Southern  rice-fields,  destroying  as 
high  as  ten  per  cent,  of  the  crop.  Crows  are 
neither  all  bad  nor  all  good;  they  are  the  most 
human  of  birds!  The  English  sparrow  is  an  un- 
diluted pest  because  he  drives  out  other  and  much 
more  desirable  birds,  and  should  always  be  de- 
stroyed, either  by  poison,  by  traps,  or  by  a  gun. 
Knocking  down  the  nest  does  no  good,  though 
taking  out  the  eggs  every  day  helps.  The  robin 
and  certain  other  birds  sometimes  seriously  raid 
small-fruit  crops,  particularly  the  cherry,  but  by 
planting  a  few  trees  of  a  wild  variety  on  the  edge  of 
an  orchard  they  can  be  controlled;  and  in  most 
cases  the  good  they  do  outbalances  the  harm.  The 
great  bulk  of  our  common  North  American  birds 
are  unreservedly  our  friends,  in  a  very  real  sense, 
working  for  us  at  least  ten  hours  a  day,  busily, 
without  pay,  singing  at  their  labors,  destroying 
insect  pests,  keeping  down  weeds,  grubbing  up 
worms,  helping  the  beneficent  forces  in  nature  in 
their  endless  battle  with  the  parasites.  Their  total 
economic  value  in  this  capacity  is  far  up  in  the 
millions  of  dollars.  Their  destruction  would  mean 
a  very  grave  disturbance  of  the  balance  of  nature ; 
and,  conversely,  their  protection  by  every  means  in 
our  power  is  as  much  a  duty  as  any  other  form  of 
conservation.  Sentiment  may  be  left  quite  out  of 
the  question. 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


Over  perhaps  the  worst  foe  of  bird  life  we  have 
no  control — the  weather.  A  bad  winter  twelve 
years  ago  killed  nearly  all  the  quail  in  Massa- 
chusetts ,  for  example .  The  exceptionally  deep  snow 
of  the  winter  of  1915-16  also  wrought  great  havoc 
among  the  partridges  and  pheasants.  They  suffered 
again  in  1917-18,  even  more,  perhaps.  The  late 
March  blizzard  which  hit  Berkshire  in  1919  killed 
thousands  of  song-sparrows,  robins,  bluebirds,  and 
even  juncos.  Storms  may  catch  the  migratory 
birds  when  over  the  water,  and  destroy  them  by  the 
thousands.  The  cold,  wet,  late  spring  of  1917,  in 
the  Northeastern  states,  exacted  a  pathetic  toll 
from  the  warblers.  These  beautiful  little  birds,  of 
so  many  and  bewildering  varieties,  are  entirely 
insectivorous  and  seem  never  to  have  learned  how 
to  eat  anything  else,  even  in  times  of  dire  need. 
Migrating  in  May  over  a  land  still  too  cold  and 
wet  for  insect  life  to  be  active,  they  were  hard 
pressed,  and  came  into  our  gardens  by  the  thou- 
sands, looking  for  food  in  the  newly  turned  earth. 
I  often  had  redstarts  and  Blackburnians  hopping 
on  my  very  feet  as  I  hoed  or  cultivated.  They 
not  only  died  of  starvation  in  droves,  but  fell, 
through  weakness,  an  easy  prey  to  cats.  A  cat 
belonging  to  a  neighbor  of  mine  was  seen  to  kill 
ten  warblers  in  a  single  afternoon.  I  think  if  I 
had  seen  it  I  should  have  killed  the  cat ! 

But,  next  to  the  elements,  man  is  the  birds'  chief 
foe — man,  the  cruelest  of  God's  creatures.  Not 
only  does  he  turn  his  cats  loose  to  prey,  and  go  out 
himself  with  a  gun  to  slaughter,  but  gradually,  as 
more  and  more  land  comes  under  cultivation,  he  is 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  9 

destroying  the  cover  for  the  birds,  taking  away  their 
nesting-places,  driving  them,  his  best  friends,  un- 
consciously from  his  door.  I  never  see  the  modern 
slaughter  with  a  brush  scythe  along  a  country  road, 
for  instance,  without  thinking  not  only  how  much 
beauty  of  wild  landscape  gardening  has  been  laid 
low,  but  how  many  nesting-places  have  been  laid 
low,  also  —  nesting-places  for  birds  that  are  the 
farmers'  assistants.  The  vireos  and  chipping-spar- 
rows  love  to  nest  in  friendly  proximity  to  a  road  or 
lane,  in  shrubs  or  low  trees,  and  both  varieties  of 
birds  are  great  insect-destroyers.  The  sparrow  also 
eats  weed  seeds.  A  nest  of  four  young  sparrows 
was  watched  by  a  government  observer  at  different 
hours  on  four  different  days,  and  it  was  found  that 
a  day's  average  rations  for  the  brood  was  238  insects 
and  caterpillars.  Watching  a  similar  nest  in  my 
grapevine,  I  saw  the  parents  bring  seven  cutworms 
(each  worm  capable  of  destroying  a  cauliflower 
plant  worth  fifteen  or  twenty  cents)  to  the  young  in 
less  than  half  an  hour.  How  can  any  one  doubt 
that  it  pays  to  have  as  many  chipping-sparrows  as 
possible  nesting  near  one's  farm  and  orchard? 

The  problem  of  attracting  the  birds  back  to  our 
dwellings  and  farms,  of  assisting  them  to  breed  in 
safety,  of  providing  them  with  proper  shelter,  and, 
in  seasons  when  their  natural  food-supply  is  difficult 
to  get,  of  furnishing  them  the  food  their  active  little 
bodies  demand,  is  not  one  that  can  be  solved  by 
law.  All  laws  which  protect  the  beneficent  birds 
from  destruction  by  pot  and  feather  hunters,  by 
cats  and  game-hogs,  are  of  course  necessary,  and 
will  have  to  be  ever  more  strictly  enforced.  But  it 


io IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

is  of  slight  avail  to  protect  the  robin  from  the  pot 
hunter  of  the  South  during  the  winter  season,  only 
to  let  him  freeze  and  starve  during  a  late  spring 
snow-storm  in  the  North,  for  lack  of  evergreens  to 
take  shelter  in,  or  any  food-bearing  shrubs  above  the 
snow.  What  is  the  bluebird  to  do,  or  the  chicka- 
dee, or  the  downy  woodpecker,  if  he  flies  to  his 
grove  where  the  hole  for  his  nest  was  so  tempting 
the  year  before — and  finds  no  grove  there?  What 
are  the  quail  to  do  in  winter  when  the  few  who  have 
escaped  the  hunters  find  all  their  food-supply  buried 
deep  in  snow,  at  the  very  time  that  their  bodies 
need  a  big  supply  to  keep  them  warm?  Such  ques- 
tions as  these  are  not  to  be  answered  by  laws.  They 
are  only  to  be  answered  by  individual  and  com- 
munity effort. 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  can  be  answered, 
and  rather  easily.  How  easily,  I  have  illustrated 
for  myself.  I  lived  for  some  years  on  a  five-acre 
place,  on  the  main  street  of  a  village  in  western 
Massachusetts.  The  heavy  snow  of  March,  1916, 
lay  deep  in  my  yard  even  on  the  ist  of  April,  when 
a  flock  of  juncos  made  their  appearance.  They 
joined  the  chickadees  and  tree-sparrows  and  other 
birds  which  had  been  with  us  all  winter,  in  the 
steady  procession  down  to  the  feeding-shelf  outside 
the  kitchen  window.  But  I  decided  there  were  too 
many  of  them  for  that  small  supply  station,  so  I 
packed  down  with  my  snow-shoes  a  considerable 
area  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and  scattered 
seeds  and  fine  mixed  chicken  feed  (which  I  had  been, 
using  for  pheasants)  on  the  hard  snow.  The  juncos 
immediately  discovered  it,  as  did  a  flock  of  horned 


Chickadees  in  a  Japanese  print 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  n 

larks  (rare  visitors  with  us).  As  the  snow  rapidly 
melted,  I  kept  food  scattered  about.  In  a  few  days 
the  lawn  was  visible,  but  the  birds  were  still  there, 
and  in  the  morning  when  I  got  up,  there  would  be 
no  less  than  a  hundred  of  them  scratching  and 
pecking  in  the  grass.  I  stopped  putting  out  food 
now,  but  they  did  not  stop  pecking.  In  the  section 
where  they  worked,  the  lawn  is  spoiled  late  each 
summer  by  crab  grass,  an  abominable  annual,  which 
spreads  low  and  ripens  in  spite  of  the  mower,  thus 
seeding  itself.  That  flock  of  birds  was  after  the 
seed  and  doing  me  a  valuable  service.  A  little  feed- 
ing at  a  time  when  they  needed  it  kept  them  on  my 
premises  until  they  were  ready  to  migrate  north- 
ward. 

Outside  my  kitchen  door  stood  an  apple-tree. 
Just  beyond  this  tree  was  a  thick  stand  of  pines, 
partly  on  my  land,  partly  across  the  fence  on  my 
neighbor's.  All  winter  long  a  large  number  of 
birds  rode  out  the  severest  storms  in  the  safe 
shelter  of  these  evergreens,  and  came  to  the  apple- 
tree  for  a  perch  before  darting  down  to  the  window- 
ledge  for  sunflower  seeds  and  suet.  Our  all- winter 
guests  included  in  one  season  chickadees,  white- 
breasted  nuthatches,  a  pair  of  golden-crowned 
kinglets,  tree-sparrows,  a  pair  of  downy  wood- 
peckers (their  third  winter),  a  pair  of  red-breasted 
nuthatches  (their  third  winter  also),  several  blue 
jays,  and  a  cock  pheasant,  which  stalked  up  in  a 
stately  manner  over  the  snow  nearly  every  morning. 
The  chickadees  would  alight  on  our  fingers,  our 
heads  and  shoulders,  and  even  hop  through  the 
open  door  or  window  into  the  house  and  eat  from  a 


i2 IN    BERKSHIREFIELDS  

dish  on  the  table.  But  neither  chickadees,  nut- 
hatches, nor  woodpeckers  were  made  lazy  by  this 
feeding.  They  continued,  even  after  a  square  meal, 
to  hop  up  and  down  and  round  about  every  limb 
and  twig  of  the  apple-tree,  exploring  every  crevice 
of  the  bark.  And  that  tree  in  three  years  never 
had  a  caterpillar's  nest  on  it,  nor  showed  any  sign 
of  injury  by  insect  pests  or  scale.  I  do  not  need  the 
evidence  which  comes  from  Germany  (where  much 
more  extensive  efforts  have  been  made  to  attract 
the  birds)  that  birds  are  beneficent  in  our  trees.  In 
the  spring  of  1905,  in  Eisenach,  the  larvae  of  a  moth 
attacked  and  nearly  stripped  a  large  wood,  while  in 
a  neighboring  wood  in  Seebach,  in  which  nesting- 
houses  had  been  systematically  placed,  the  trees 
were  uninjured.  A  similar  effect  was  noticed  in 
the  orchards.  Whereupon,  according  to  Gilbert  H. 
Trafton,  in  his  excellent  book,  Methods  of  Attracting 
Birds,  the  inhabitants  of  the  villages  around  See- 
bach  began  to  put  out  bird-boxes  also,  and  the  pest 
visibly  decreased. 

The  steady  feeding  of  the  birds  during  the  winter 
frequently  induces  them  to  remain  and  nest  near  the 
dwelling,  especially  if  food  is  kept  out  through  the 
spring.  Nearly  every  year  a  pair  of  chickadees 
nested  in  a  wren-box  on  my  summer-house,  the  box 
being  immediately  reoccupied,  after  their  departure, 
by  the  wrens.  One  pair  of  woodpeckers,  too,  re- 
mained all  the  year,  and  though  they  were  much 
less  conspicuous  during  the  summer,  I  often  heard 
their  hammering  on  the  apple-trees  and  saw  them 
hard  at  work  destroying  insects  under  the  bark. 
Our  yard,  indeed,  was  full  of  birds'  nests,  and  we  had 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  13 

an  excellent  opportunity  of  checking  up  their  habits 
and  estimating  any  damage  they  may  do.     The 


Jennie  Wren  brings  scores  of  grubs  to  the  nest 

damage   consists   of   fruit-robbing.     We   generally 
had  two  pairs  of  cat-birds,  who  nested  either  in  the 


i4  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

red  osier  dogwood  bushes  or  in  a  tall  hedge  of 
ancient,  tangled  syringa.  These  birds,  which  were 
extremely  friendly  and  would  sit  on  a  low  branch 
and  mock  us  as  we  stood  below  and  whistled,  un- 
doubtedly steal  raspberries,  but  not  enough  to  cause 
any  serious  loss.  The  robins,  however,  which  are 
always  extremely  numerous,  as  many  as  a  dozen 
nests  having  been  built  on  the  place  in  a  season,  did 
annoy  us  each  year  by  completely  stripping  a  cherry- 
tree.  If  we  had  grown  cherries  commercially  we 
should  have  had  to  take  steps  to  protect  the  fruit. 
But  with  these  two  exceptions  all  the  bird  activi- 
ties we  were  able  to  observe  were  beneficent. 

For  instance,  a  pair  of  robins  built  a  nest  under 
the  eaves,  on  top  of  a  shutter,  and  reared  two 
broods.  When  the  second  brood  was  hatched  the 
fall  web-worms  had  begun  to  hang  their  horrid  nests 
up  in  the  slender  limb-tips  of  an  elm  and  a  birch  near 
by,  beyond  the  reach  of  any  ladder.  Day  after 
day  we  could  see  the  parent  robins  flying  to  these 
nests  and  returning  with  food  for  their  hungry 
brood.  Three  wren-houses  (one  of  them,  at  first 
unoccupied,  was  finally  rented  by  means  of  a  ''To 
Let"  sign!)  were  sometimes  the  homes  of  two 
broods  a  season,  and  the  cheerful  little  tenants  not 
only  delighted  us  all  day  with  their  chatter,  but 
could  be  seen  constantly  flying  into  the  hole  with 
bugs,  caterpillars,  grasshoppers,  cutworms,  and  the 
like  for  their  crowded  nestful  of  squeaking,  hungry 
young.  A  family  of  young  wrens  keeps  the  parents 
extremely  busy  hunting  pests.  Over  my  summer- 
house  climbed  several  Virginia  creepers,  and  usually 
a  pair  of  chipping-sparrows  built  in  the  thickly 


LANDLORD    TO   THE    BIRDS  15 

twined  stems,  about  six  feet  from  the  ground,  so 
well  concealed  by  the  overhanging  leaves  that  you 
wondered  the  birds  could  find  the  way  in  themselves. 
It  is  much  harder  to  see  what  the  sparrows  bring 
to  their  young,  as  they  are  shy  and  crafty  about  ap- 
proaching the  nest,  but  by  sitting  very  still  I  have 
watched  the  parents  coming  in  with  caterpillars 
over  and  over.  The  United  States  Bureau  of  Bio- 
logical Survey  gives  forty- two  per  cent,  of  their 
food  as  "insects  and  spiders,  chiefly  caterpillars," 
and  fifty-eight  per  cent,  vegetable  matter.  That 
the  vegetable  matter  is  seeds  you  have  only  to 
watch  the  sparrows  hopping  over  the  ground  to  de- 
termine for  yourself.  One  day  I  saw  a  chipping- 
sparrow  fly  down  from  his  nest  in  the  vines,  to  the 
lawn,  and  start  in  on  a  ripe  dandelion-top  which  was 
almost  ready  to  burst  and  scatter  its  seeds.  He 
completely  finished  this  head,  stripping  it  to  the 
bare,  green  crown  before  he  rose. 

The  chipping-sparrows  likewise  nested  in  a  row 
of  cedars  along  a  garden  path,  and  here,  too,  the 
song-sparrows  sometimes  built.  The  song-sparrow, 
one  of  the  most  friendly  of  summer  visitors,  who 
comes  early  and  sings  all  the  time  he  is  here,  is  gen- 
erally assigned  to  the  group  of  ground-building 
birds ;  but  he  is  adaptable  both  as  to  nest  and  as  to 
diet,  and  with  us  seemed  to  prefer  the  thick  protec- 
tion of  an  upstanding  cedar,  several  feet  above  the 
ground,  to  a  nest  in  the  grass.  It  was  almost  a 
joke  with  us  that  we  never  went  out  into  the  garden 
to  work  or  to  pick  flowers,  but  one  of  our  song- 
sparrows  spied  us,  and  thereupon  sought  the  tall, 
swaying  leader  of  a  young  pine  or  spruce  and  began 


16 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

to  sing  his  liquid,  melodious  welcome.  Like  the 
chipping-sparrow,  the  song-sparrow  eats  more  large- 
ly of  weed  seeds  than  of  insects — in  fact,  three- 
fourths  of  his  diet  is  weed  seeds. 

Just  now,  as  I  write  [I  find  this  entry  in  my  journal  for  one 
early  September],  there  is  a  whole  flock  of  song-sparrows  in 
the  neighborhood — twenty  or  more,  I  should  say — and  this 
morning  they  were  all  in  my  Early  Rose  potato-patch.  The 
vines  have  pretty  well  died  down,  and  the  weeds,  especially 
the  grasses,  which  escaped  the  cultivator  by  growing  amid 
the  hills,  are  standing  up  in  plain  sight  and  beginning  to  drop 
their  seeds.  As  I  passed  the  bed  all  the  sparrows  rose  with  a 
whirl  (I  had  not  seen  them,  and  their  flight  startled  me),  but 
instantly  settled  down  out  of  sight  again  when  I  had  gone  on  a 
few  steps,  in  and  under  the  weeds.  Two  hours  later,  when  I 
once  more  passed  by,  they  were  still  at  it.  No  one,  of  course, 
can  calculate  the  number  of  seeds  those  birds  ate,  but  it  was  in 
the  thousands,  certainly,  and  next  year's  cultivating  will  be 
by  so  much  the  easier,  next  year'.s  crop  so  much  the  more  suc- 
cessful, for  a  given  amount  of  labor. 

Among  other  birds  which  nested  on  the  place  were 
downy  woodpeckers,  flickers,  king-birds,  phcebes, 
ruby-throated  humming-birds,  screech-owls,  orioles, 
flycatchers,  and  swallows,  all  of  them  without  ar- 
tificial boxes.  Of  course,  the  bluebirds,  owls,  and 
woodpeckers  would  need  boxes  on  a  place  where 
there  were  no  trees  with  rotten  limbs  or  holes,  but 
our  orchard  was  an  old  one  and  had  several  ideal 
trees  from  the  bird  standpoint,  if  not  from  that  of 
the  orchardist.  We  also  had  an  old  hickory,  once 
struck  by  lightning  and  now  sawed  off  twenty  feet 
from  the  ground,  with  a  tin  cap  nailed  over  the  stub. 
Under  this  cap  both  owls  and  flickers  have  nested, 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  17 

one  flicker,  two  or  three  years  ago,  taking  great 
delight  in  drumming  on  the  under  side  of  the  tin  for 
fifteen  minutes  at  a  time,  like  a  small  boy  with  an 
old  dishpan.  Sometimes  he  made  so  much  noise 
it  was  a  nuisance.  Almost  invariably  when  you 
start  up  a  flicker  it  is  from  the  ground.  I  used  to 
come  on  them  over  and  over  in  the  middle  of  the 
lawn,  and  was  not  surprised  when  I  found  that  the 
investigations  of  flickers'  crops  and  stomachs  showed 
they  live  very  largely  upon  ants.  Any  one  who  has 
been  troubled  by  ant-hills  in  a  lawn  (and  who  has 
not?)  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  the  government 
bureau  found  as  many  as  five  thousand  ants  in  a 
single  stomach,  and  that  flickers,  when  natural 
holes  are  not  available,  will  take  readily  to  artificial 
boxes. 

Bluebirds,  too,  will  readily  nest  in  boxes,  and  if 
you  had  sat  as  I  did  one  day,  quietly  in  the  orchard, 
and  watched  a  single  bluebird  alternating  song  with 
caterpillar-eating — a  caterpillar,  then  a  bit  of  mel- 
ody, then  another  caterpillar,  and  another  bit  of 
melody,  and  so  on,  unceasingly,  for  two  hours — you 
would  still  further  rejoice  in  the  presence  of  this 
beloved  messenger  of  spring.  The  king-bird,  too,  is 
an  orchard  nester.  He  bears  the  unpleasant  techni- 
cal name  of  Tymnnus  tymnnus,  but  none  that  I  have 
observed  merited  even  one  of  these  terms,  let  alone 
the  double  dose.  It  is  the  characteristic  of  a  tyrant 
to  oppress  everybody,  especially  the  weak,  but  the 
king-birds  reserve  their  pugnacity  for  birds  larger 
and  stronger  than  themselves — namely,  the  hawks 
and  crows.  I  well  remember,  in  my  boyhood,  a 
pair  of  king-birds  which  nested  in  our  orchard,  at  a 


i8  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

time  when  crows  were  plentiful  near  by.  Almost 
daily  we  would  hear  cries  and  caws  of  conflict,  and, 
rushing  out,  I  would  watch  with  delight  the  flight 
of  the  two  relatively  small  gray-and-white  birds  at 
one  side  or  directly  over  the  great  black  crow.  They 
would  dart  down  upon  him  exactly  as  one  fancies 
an  airplane  used  to  dart  down  over  a.  Zeppelin  to 
drop  a  bomb;  and  invariably  they  drove  the  crow 
away,  sometimes  pursuing  him  out  of  sight.  The 
king-bird  lives  largely  on  an  insectivorous  diet,  and 
one  of  his  greatest  merits  is  his  fondness  for  rose- 
bugs.  Long  live  the  king-bird! 

So  we  might  continue,  if  there  were  space  and 
time,  enumerating  the  various  birds  and  telling  of 
their  diet,  which  almost  invariably  will  be  found 
to  consist  of  insects  or  vegetable  matter  injurious 
to  the  farm  or  orchard  or  garden.  Only  certain 
hawks,  the  starlings,  and  English  sparrows  (because 
they  drive  away  more  desirable  birds),  and  to  a 
limited  extent  the  crow,  the  jay,  and  one  or  two  more 
are  objectionable.  All  the  rest  are  of  very  real  and 
positive  service  to  mankind,  capable  of  returning 
a  money  value  to  the  nation  conservatively  esti- 
mated at  many  millions  of  dollars  a  year. 

But  to  render  this  service  they  must  be  en- 
couraged, not  discouraged,  and  they  must  be  fed 
and  housed  when  nature  fails  them.  Their  greatest 
need  for  food,  of  course,  is  in  winter,  or  late  autumn 
and  early  spring,  for  in  summer  there  is  food  enough 
and  to  spare — more  now  than  ever  before,  with  the 
increase  of  insect  pests.  Their  greatest  need  for 
housing  is  in  those  districts  which  are  thickly  settled, 
or  becoming  so,  where  the  natural  cover  is  cut  off 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  19 

and    suitable    nesting-places    are    destroyed.     For 
every  rotted  tree,  or  tree  with  holes  in  it,  which  is 


The  martin-house 

cut  down  or  cemented  up,  the  wise  farmer  or  gar- 
dener will  mount  nicker,   woodpecker,  wren,   and 


20  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

bluebird  boxes,  and  put  up  martin-houses.  At  pres- 
ent this  is  chiefly  done  in  the  larger  suburban  towns 
(like  Greenwich,  Connecticut,  which  has  a  splendid 
organization  that  has  done  great  service  both  to 
the  birds  and  to  the  community).  There  is  need  in 
such  places,  of  course,  but  the  need  is  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  towns.  Modern  farm  barns  are 
often  closed  to  the  beneficent  barn-swallows,  and 
modern  flues  are  less  adapted  than  of  old  to  the 
chimney-swifts.  New  orchards  have  no  rot  holes, 
and  with  the  farmer  trimming  all  the  roadside 
adjoining  his  fields,  and  the  State  Highway  Com- 
missioners cutting  down  all  the  wild  gardens  beyond 
him,  and  the  lumbermen  buying  and  cutting  down 
all  his  woodland,  the  birds  have  a  progressively 
harder  time  everywhere.  Besides,  it  is  not  far  out 
in  the  fields  or  the  woods  that  we  so  much  need 
them — it  is  about  our  dwellings,  our  orchards,  our 
gardens,  for  their  services,  even  if  we  do  not  appre- 
ciate their  companionship. 

And  it  is  so  easy  and  pleasant  to  aid  the  birds,  for 
nearly  everything  they  need  is  also  a  desirable  adorn- 
ment for  man!  For  the  winter  birds  there  should 
always  be  some  evergreen  protection,  and  it  is  a 
safe  generalization  that  no  country  house  is  com- 
plete without  such  protection  also.  For  summer 
nesting  there  should  be  proper  trees,  and  boxes  for 
the  birds  which  require  holes,  and  also  some  thick 
shrubbery,  trimmed  when  young,  if  possible,  to 
grow  into  whorls  to  hold  the  nests,  and  thereafter 
left  undisturbed  to  attain  a  natural  wildness  and  to 
protect  its  center  from  invasion,  by  out-thrown 
growths.  Not  only  is  such  shrubbery  needed  for 


The  play  of  the  chimney-swifts  at  twilight 

the  birds,  but  it  is  the  only  proper  way  to  plant 
shrubbery,  anyhow.  Then,  of  course,  there  should 
be  water  readily  available — not  in  a  deep  receptacle, 
but  in  a  shallow  bath  not  over  two  inches  deep.  My 


22 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

most  successful  of  several  bird  baths  is  simply  a 
shallow  pan,  oval  in  shape  and  about  twenty-four 
inches  long,  embedded  with  its  lip  level  with  the 
sod,  between  two  spirasa  bushes  and  almost  under- 
neath an  iris  plant.  It  is  flushed  and  filled  with  a 
hose  every  day  or  two,  and  makes  a  bright  little 
twinkle  of  reflection  as  you  look  toward  the  edge  of 
the  garden.  At  this  bath,  on  a  hot  day,  the  birds 
literally  form  in  line,  waiting  their  turn,  for  it  is 
characteristic  of  all  birds  that  they  insist  on  bathing 
alone,  if  they  are  strong  enough  to  maintain  their 
rights  against  an  insistent  competitor.  I  have  even 
seen  a  sparrow  drive  out  a  robin.  The  baths  form 
an  important  part  of  bird  attraction,  and  any  yard, 
even  in  a  city,  which  has  the  proper  water  facilities 
will  be  sure  of  its  feathered  visitors. 

In  the  midwinter  season,  when  nearly  all  natural 
food  is  covered  up  with  snow,  suet  fastened  in  wire 
racks  with  meshes  wide  enough  for  the  birds  to 
peck  through,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  sunflower 
seeds  put  out  daily  on  a  shelf  or  the  trodden  snow 
(a  shelf  with  a  shelter  over  it  is  best,  of  course),  will 
serve  admirably  for  the  tastes  of  most  of  our  winter 
residents.  Bread  crumbs,  fine  mixed  chicken  feed, 
crumbled  dog  biscuit,  and  cracked  nuts  are  all  good, 
but  the  two  staples  of  animal  and  vegetable  food, 
respectively,  are  undoubtedly  suet  and  sunflower 
seeds.  It  is  well  to  have  the  food  out  early,  before 
the  snow  comes,  and  to  maintain  the  supply  until 
the  spring  is  well  advanced.  But  the  feeding  of  the 
birds  should  not  end  with  these  artificial  provisions. 
There  are  some  winter  visitors,  such  as  the  occa- 
sional pine-grosbeaks,  which  will  not  eat  at  the 


Tapping  away  at  a  frozen  bit  of  suet 


LANDLORD    TO    THE    BIRDS  23 

feeding- table,  and  many  early  spring  arrivals  which 
look  for  other  food.  Then,  too,  at  all  seasons  it 
must  be  remembered  that  wild  fruit  is  greatly  appre- 
ciated, and  serves  as  a  great  attraction.  Therefore 
certain  shrubs  and  trees  should  be  planted  which 
have  attractive  fruit,  and  some  which  will  hold  this 
fruit  above  the  snow  during  the  winter. 

Of  all  such  shrubs  and  trees,  undoubtedly  the 
most  useful  is  the  mulberry.  If  planted  near 
cherries,  it  is  said,  the  robins  will  even  leave  the 
cherries  alone.  The  June  berry  is  also  recom- 
mended to  protect  strawberry  beds,  but  I  have 
found  that,  as  far  as  strawberries  are  concerned, 
black  threads  stretched  taut  over  the  rows  will 
effectively  keep  the  robins  away.  Among  the  orna- 
mental vines,  shrubs,  and  trees  the  most  useful  are, 
perhaps,  the  common  Virginia  creeper,  the  bar- 
berry (which  the  pine-grosbeaks  especially  like) ,  the 
cedar,  and  the  mountain  ash.  All  of  these  are  dis- 
tinct adornments  to  house  or  garden,  be  it  noted, 
and  provide  nesting-places  as  well  as  food  for  the 
birds.  I  have  found  the  red  osier  dogwood  (Cornus 
stolonifera)  an  unfailing  attraction  to  domestically 
inclined  cat-birds,  and  its  berries  are  invariably  all 
eaten.  Holly,  bayberry,  black  alder,  bittersweet, 
elderberry,  and  burning-bush  are  other  varieties 
which  may  be  planted.  If  you  have  soil  without 
lime,  you  might  try  a  blueberry-bush.  Of  course,  a 
honeysuckle-vine  is  the  best  of  all  lures  to  the  hum- 
ming-birds, and  few  birds  can  resist  a  sunflower 
patch  after  the  flowers  have  gone  to  seed.  I  re- 
member we  once  cut  a  mass  of  sunflowers  and  laid 
them  out  on  a  back  veranda  to  dry,  but  before  we 


24  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

knew  what  was  up  a  flock  of  birds  had  discovered 
them  and  taken  half  our  stock.  Cosmos  and  let- 
tuce gone  to  seed  are  two  of  the  surest  lures  for  the 
goldfinches. 

I  feel  almost  as  if  I  owed  an  apology  to  my  little 
feathered  friends  for  writing  of  them  so  statistically 
save  only  that  it  is  in  their  defense.  When  I  think 
how  much  less  pleasant,  nay,  how  much  less  home- 
like, my  home  would  be  without  the  birds,  I  realize 
anew  my  debt  to  them  for  things  more  precious  than 
material  advantages.  When  I  think  how  since  my 
earliest  boyhood  I  have  watched  the  chimney-swal- 
lows rise  and  dart  against  the  pale-gold  sky  of  even- 
ing, the  old  brick  chimney-stack  seems  no  more  a 
part  of  home  than  they.  When  I  recall  how  the  birds 
bathed  fearlessly  in  my  garden,  naively  performing 
their  toilets  (about  which  they  are  so  particular) 
with  all  the  unconsciousness  of  some  wild  field  bird 
in  a  rain-pool  on  a  pasture  rock,  it  seems  to  me  the 
birds  bring  a  bit  of  the  far,  free  spaces  into  my  gar- 
den close.  When  I  see  a  chickadee  tapping  away  at 
a  frozen  bit  of  suet,  suspended  against  the  gray  and 
white  landscape  of  winter,  his  little  black  head  is  a 
symbol  of  the  cheerfulness  of  the  snow,  and  when  I 
hear  the  harder  blows  of  the  woodpecker  at  the  suet 
ball,  I  say: 

" Hammer  away,  old  chap!  That's  what  we  put 
it  there  for.  It's  poor  picking  under  the  tree  bark 
now,  and  that  beautiful,  sleek,  black-and-white 
body  of  yours  needs  heat  to  maintain  itself  in  this 
frozen  world.  Come  again,  and  often,  you  bit  of 
vivid  life  in  the  chill  and  naked  tracery  of  winter 
limbs." 


A  phcebe  nesting  under  the  porch  eaves 


LANDLORD    TO   THE    BIRDS  25 

When  I  remember  the  twinkling  eye  of  the  mother 
phoebe  that  watched  us  from  her  nest  over  the  inside 
rafter  of  the  porch,  and  the  cheery  outlook  on  the 
garden  world  maintained  by  her  spouse  from  a 
perch  just  outside,  in  a  spray  of  blossoms,  I  think  of 
them  both  as  members  of  the  family,  like  the  robin 
who  for  three  years  built  under  another  porch,  and 
would  let  us  mount  a  chair  and  see  her  babies  at 
close  range.  And  when  I  think  of  the  packed  snow 
outside  the  house  in  winter,  and  the  fearless  little 
brown  sparrows,  or  the  juncos,  fluttering  from  the 
protecting  evergreens  or  leaving  their  task  of  hop- 
ping under  the  weed  stalks  near  by,  and  gathering 
around  for  crumbs,  I  think  of  the  gentle  saint  of 
Assisi,  though  no  sermon  comes  to  my  lips  for  this 
feathered  congregation.  It  is  not  spiritual  food  they 
are  after!  Indeed,  by  their  busy  little  lives,  so  full 
of  danger,  yet  so  full  of  song,  it  is  rather  they  who 
do  the  preaching.  They  are  so  faithful  to  their 
single  mates,  so  few  of  them  ever  kill  their  kind  in 
the  struggle  to  survive,  they  work  so  hard  to  bring 
up  their  families  properly,  they  do  not  even  fight 
(except  occasionally  and  in  bloodless  combat,  to 
get  first  turn  at  the  tub),  they  are  so  beautiful  to 
look  at,  so  pleasant  to  hear!  The  air  without  birds 
would  be  an  aerial  desert,  cold  and  void,  and  with- 
out their  song — without  the  fluting  of  the  white- 
throat  in  the  spring,  the  midsummer  chatter  of  the 
wrens,  the  reveille  of  the  robins  and  the  vesper  of 
the  song-sparrows,  without  the  piercingly  sweet  call 
of  the  meadow-lark  behind  the  summer-house  and 
the  cool,  elfin,  woodland  clarion  of  the  thrush  which 
lives  in  the  great  trees  just  up  the  hill — a  silence 


26  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

would  settle  over  my  garden  which  would  seem  like 
the  silence  of  the  grave,  as  if  the  life  breath  had 
gone  out  of  nature;  and  I  should  be  as  one  bereft. 
That  the  birds  eat  so  many  insect  pests  and  destroy 
so  many  noxious  weeds  I  am  thankful.  But  I  love 
them  just  for  their  air-darting,  feathered  selves,  for 
their  freedom,  their  friendliness,  and  their  melody. 


Winter  or  summer,  the  crow  lias  his  place  in  the  prospect 


JIM    CROW 

\ 

THE  American  crow  (Corvus  americanus)  is 
the  wisest  of  all  our  birds,  the  best  able  to 
take  care  of  himself  under  any  and  all  cir- 
cumstances, the  most  difficult  to  exterminate,  and 
yet  the  easiest  to  tame.  He  has,  from  the  earliest 
settlement  of  the  country,  been  looked  upon  as  a 
pest,  and  his  tribe  has  enriched  our  language  with 
the  word  scarecrow.  Probably  he  was  regarded  as 
a  pest  long  before  the  advent  of  the  Mayflower;  the 
squaws  of  the  Six  Nations  doubtless  shooed  him 
from  their  maize-plantings  while  Joseph  was  hoard- 
ing corn  in  Egypt,  and  the  braves  of  the  Six  Nations 
affirmed  that  you  never  saw  a  crow  when  you  had 
your  bow  with  you.  He  is  still  to-day  regarded  as 
a  pest,  though  in  a  lesser  degree,  for  we  have  learned 
that  a  coating  of  coal-tar  over  the  seed-grain  will 
generally  protect  the  corn-planting,  and  we  have 
learned  that  his  fondness  for  wire  worms,  cutworms, 


28  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

grasshoppers,  and  white  grubs  probably  counter- 
balances to  a  very  considerable  extent,  if  not  en- 
tirely, his  destructive  instincts  toward  the  eggs  and 
young  of  other  birds.  The  most  that  the  United 
States  Department  of  Agriculture,  in  its  famous 
Farmers'  Bulletin  54,  will  say  is  that  "a  reduction 
in  its  numbers  in  localities  where  it  is  seriously 
destructive  is  justifiable."  But  does  any  one  love 
the  crow?  Has  any  one  thought  how  much  poorer, 
less  characteristic,  our  landscape  would  be  were  he 
exterminated?  We  have  sent  our  sluggards  to  the 
ant  for  instruction,  but  have  we  considered  the  crow, 
adept  in  co-operation,  intelligently  gregarious,  with 
what  the  Farmers'  Bulletin  calls  "the  social  in- 
stinct" highly  developed?  It  would  seem  that  our 
New  England  farmers,  at  any  rate,  have  much  to 
learn  from  this  despised  bird!  One  man,  of  course, 
appreciated  him — Thoreau;  but  he  appreciated 
everything  in  our  native  fields  and  forests.  And  I 
doubt  not  that  every  man  who  as  a  boy  once  had  a 
pet  crow  loves  still  the  entire  species  and  finds  a 
wistful  music  in  their  call. 

A  pet  crow's  name  is  always  Jim,  regardless  of 
sex.  Just  why  that  is  those  wiser  in  folk-lore  than 
I  will  have  to  answer.  Even  the  famous  jackdaw  of 
the  now-ill-fated  Rheims  became  Saint  Jim  when  he 
died  a  penitent,  did  he  not?  The  name  must  have 
come  over  the  water  with  our  ancestors.  Like  the 
jackdaw,  too,  the  crow's  middle  name  is  always  mis- 
chief. The  process  of  catching  and  taming  a  crow 
is  not  difficult — if  you  have  somebody  to  climb  the 
tree  for  you.  As  the  crows  almost  invariably  nest 
in  the  tallest  white-pine  trees,  particularly  those  in 


JIM    CROW 


29 


swampy  places,  and  as  the  process  of  scaling  a  tall 
white  pine  is  neither  clean  nor  easy,  young  crows 
are  usually  secured  by  small  boys.  Even  Thoreau 
admitted  the  diffi- 
culty of  reaching 
the  crow's  nest, 
but  it  did  not 
deter  him.  On 
May  n,  1855,  he 
records  (Notes  on 
New  England 
Birds) :  ' '  You  can 
hardly  walk  in  a 
thick  pine  wood 
now,  especially  in 
a  swamp,  but 
presently  you  will 
have  a  crow  or 
two  over  your 
head,  either  si- 
lently flitting 
over,  to  spy  at 
what  you  would 
be  at  and  if  its 
nest  is  in  danger, 
or  angrily  cawing. 
It  is  most  impres- 
sive when,  look- 
ing for  their  nests,  you  first  detect  the  presence  of 
the  bird  by  its  shadow."  How  like  Thoreau  is  that 
last  touch  of  subtle  observation! 

When  I  was  a  boy  our  favorite  method  of  securing 
a  young  crow,  after  we  had  discovered  a  nest,  was 


A  fledgling  crow 


3o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

to  climb  the  pine-tree  clad  in  overalls  to  protect  us 
from  pitch,  and  armed  with  a  ball  of  twine  with  a 
small  cloth  bag  tied  to  one  end.  The  operation  had 
to  be  conducted  in  May,  for  the  crow  breeds  early. 
If  the  birds  were  found  to  be  too  young,  experience 
taught  us  it  was  better  to  wait  a  few  days.  If, 
however,  the  silly,  homely  little  things  had  grown 
feathers  enough  to  bear  a  family  resemblance  to 
their  parents  instead  of  to  a  lump  of  animated  coal- 
tar,  the  most  aggressive  bird  would  be  lifted  from 
the  nest,  put  as  gently  as  possible  into  the  bag,  and 
lowered  by  the  cord  to  the  ground,  where  another 
boy  was  waiting — not  a  simple  job  by  any  means, 
as  it  would  not  do  to  bang  the  poor  creature  against 
the  limbs  or  trunk  of  the  tree  in  its  descent,  and  the 
light,  swaying  load  had  to  be  navigated  between 
branches,  while  the  parent  birds  sometimes  kept  up 
a  perfect  stream  of  terrified  profanity  overhead. 
(There  is  no  question  but  the  crow  swears.  Any- 
body who  has  observed  him  closely  will  testify  to 
this.) 

Once  safely  out  of  the  tree,  the  baby  crow  was 
taken  home  and  put  in  a  barrel  or  a  deep  box,  with 
plenty  of  smallish  sticks  at  the  bottom  for  it  to 
catch  hold  of  with  its  feet,  and  later  perches  put 
across  higher  up  the  sides.  Bread  soaked  in  milk 
was  usually  found  to  be  the  best  diet  for  a  time— 
and  not  as  much  of  that  as  the  little  greedy-gut 
demanded.  There  is  nothing  so  greedy  as  a  small 
bird,  and  nothing  so  vociferous  about  it  as  a  small 
crow.  If  you  give  them  all  they  demand,  you  can 
kill  them  in  twenty-four  hours.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  young  crow  being  fed  by  its  parents?  At  that  de- 


JIM    CROW 


pendent  stage  of  their  existence  they  cry  for  food  al- 
most incessantly,  and  keep  right  on  crying  as  the  food 
is  going  down,  which  results  in  an  odd  sound  some- 
thing like  this: 
Squaw,    squaw, 
squa — (down  goes 
a   white    grub 
dropped  from  the 
parent's   beak) 
awbble,  awbble, 
awbble;   squaw, 
squaw,     squa- 
(down  the  yawn- 
ing gullet  goes  an- 
other   morsel    of 
food   from    the 
other    parent)  - 
awbble,  awbble, 
awbble.    They  be- 
have in  much  the 
same  way  when  a 
human   is    trying 
to  bring  them  up, 
and  a  great  deal 
depends    upon 

your  ability  to  resist  their  appeals  before  you  kill 
them  with  kindness. 

Once  the  young  crow  has  passed  the  dangerous 
age  and  is  able  to  be  placed  on  a  perch  outside  of 
his  barrel  and  fed  with  a  more  miscellaneous  diet,  or 
put  upon  the  low  roof  of  some  outhouse,  whence  he 
hops  to  the  ground  and  learns  to  fly,  your  troubles 
of  that  sort  are  over.  He  will  soon  be  foraging  for 


Crying  incessantly  for  food 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


himself.  Nor  do  you  need  to  clip  his  wings.  He 
will  not  desert  you.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  you  will 
almost  wish  he  would.  The  crow  is  by  nature  gre- 
garious. If  he  is  not  nocking  with  birds  of  his 
feather,  he  will  stick  close  to  his  human  protectors. 
He  has,  too,  a  strongly  developed  sense  of  place, 
almost  like  a  cat  (whom  he  also  resembles  in  his  per- 
sonal independence  and  frequent  resentment  of  any 
handling  save  a  stroking  of  his  head).  I  knew  a 
pet  crow  who  was  left  behind  for  two  weeks  while 
the  entire  family  went  away  on  a  visit,  and  when 
they  returned  he  was  strolling  about  the  yard,  and 
came  walking,  with  frequent  hops  of  haste  and  a 
short  flight  or  two,  to  meet  them,  uttering  little 
caws  of  welcome. 

The  possession  of  a  pet  crow  is  not  only  an  end- 
less source  of  amusement — not  unmixed  at  times 
with  annoyance  at  his  mischief,  almost  as  in  the 
case  of  a  pet  monkey — but  it  affords  an  opportunity 
to  study  the  habits  of  the  bird,  especially  his  diet. 
As  the  whole  question  of  the  crow's  destructiveness 
is  concerned  with  his  diet,  this  study  has  peculiar 
interest,  and  the  case  of  Jim  Stone,  captured  in 
May,  1913,  is  worth  recording. 

Jim's  capture  was  effected  in  the  orthodox  man- 
ner— by  the  employment  of  an  energetic  small  boy 
to  climb  the  pine-tree ;  and  his  early  upbringing  was 
orthodox,  also.  His  supply  of  milk-soaked  bread 
was  always  withdrawn  before  his  pleadings  ceased, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  could  perch  outside  of  his 
barrel,  and  presently  he  was  placed  on  the  low  roof 
of  the  woodshed  and  taught  to  fly.  After  this  lesson 
was  learned  he  became  a  self-sustaining  member 


JIM    CROW 


33 


of  the  household,  and  by  no  means  the  least  con- 
spicuous member.  He  had  the  free  range  not  only 
of  the  garden  behind  the  house,  but  of  the  whole 
farm  and  the  Berkshire  Hills  beyond.  No  effort 
whatever  was 
made  to  confine 
him.  Yet  he,  in 
his  turn,  showed 
no  disposition  to 
depart  and  join 
his  feathered  fel- 
lows. As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  showed 
an  odd  fear  of  his 
own  kind,  and 
when  wild  crows 
came  into  the 
garden  he  would 
fly  hastily  to  the 
protection  of  the 
woodshed  or  the 
kitchen  door.  I 
wonder  if  this  is 
characteristic  of 
all  crows  reared 
in  captivity? 
Neither  did  he  at 

any  time  during  the  entire  season  molest  the  garden 
or  the  field  corn,  in  spite  of  his  constant  opportuni- 
ties, nor  any  of  the  numerous  robin  and  field-sparrow 
nests  about  the  place.  This  may,  of  course,  be  ex- 
plained in  part  by  his  many  opportunities  to  get 
food  more  easily  at  the  kitchen  door — scraps  fallen 


He  would  follow  up  the  rows  of  fresh- 
turned  earth 


34  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

about  the  garbage-pail,  for  instance,  for  crows  are 
natural  scavengers,  and  they  are  extremely  fond  of 
meat  and  fish. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  plentiful  evidences 
of  his  beneficent  activities  in  the  garden.  Almost 
invariably,  when  the  master  of  the  house  picked  up 
a  hoe  or  fork  and  set  forth  to  cultivate,  Jim  would 
come  walking,  with  that  quaint,  rather  uncertain, 
sidelong  gait  of  his  tribe,  interspersed  with  hops,  and 
follow  up  the  rows  of  fresh-turned  earth  behind  the 
gardener,  pouncing  upon  every  white  grub  which 
was  brought  into  sight.  They  were  very  evidently 
his  favorite  morsel,  as  he  would  frequently  neglect 
other  worms  when  the  fat  white  ones  were  plentiful. 
His  capacity  for  these  grubs  seemed  unlimited,  and 
when  you  reflect  that  a  single  grub  in  a  single  night 
can  kill  a  cauliflower-plant  which  is  worth  fifteen 
cents  to  the  gardener,  Jim  is  seen  to  have  had  a  very 
positive  commercial  value. 

Another  item  of  Jim's  diet  was  mice.  The  first 
evidence  of  his  fondness  for  mice  was  disclosed  when 
somebody  found  a  trap  successfully  sprung  one 
morning  and  tossed  the  little  body  out  of  the  door 
near  the  dog's  nose  to  see  what  he  would  do  with  it. 
He  was  an  energetic  and  good-natured  collie  pup, 
always  ready  to  investigate  anything  and  anybody, 
and  he  at  once  picked  up  the  mouse  in  his  teeth. 
The  crow,  however,  happened  to  be  close  by  (he 
usually  kept  close  to  the  dog,  whenever  possible, 
in  a  curious  spirit  of  teasing  comradeship) ,  and  with 
an  angry  and  profane  caw  he  rose  from  the  ground, 
swept  down  at  the  dog's  head,  and  snatched  the 
mouse  out  of  his  mouth,  flying  off  with  it,  and  cast- 


JIM    CROW 


35 


ing  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  flew  a  cry  of  with- 
ering scorn,  a  sort  of,  "You  would,  would  you!" 

This,  to  be  sure,  by  itself  was  hardly  evidence 
that  the  crow  is  an  enemy  of  field-mice,  but  it  kept 
his  owners  on  the 
lookout,  and 
plenty  of  evidence 
was  forthcoming 
later  in  the  year, 
when,  after  the 
corn  had  been 
shocked  and  the 
fields  frozen,  he 
used  to  follow  who- 
ever went  out  from 
the  barn  for  a  load 
of  fodder,  and 
hover  over  the 
shock  as  it  was 
lifted.  Frequently, 
of  course,  a  mouse 
would  scurry  out 
from  beneath, 
sometimes  three  or 
four  mice,  and 
down  upon  them 
Jim  would  pounce 
with  astonishing 

speed,  and  kill  them  apparently  with  a  single  tweak 
of  his  powerful  bill.  No  matter  if  four  mice 
ran  out  from  under  the  same  shock  at  the  same 
time,  he  would  invariably  get  every  one,  and  then 
proceed  to  hide  them. 


His  liking  for  bright  objects  is  some- 
times a  nuisance 


36  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

It  was  curious  to  watch  his  instinct  to  hide  things 
manifest  itself  in  a  hundred  odd  ways,  to  the  hu- 
man mind  not  in  the  least  related  to  a  food-sup- 
ply. Any  small  object  which  was  bright  and  shin- 
ing particularly  attracted  him,  and  he  would  spend 
hours  attempting  to  hide  bits  of  broken  crockery  or 
glass  in  the  dog's  fur  or  in  his  ear.  Don's  ear  was 
a  favorite  hiding-place.  Jim  would  get  a  bit  of 
crockery  in  his  beak,  hop  upon  the  dog's  head,  drop 
it  neatly  into  his  ear,  and  then  carefully  fold  the 
ear-flap  down  over  the  aperture.  If  Don  objected 
and  raised  his  ear  again,  Jim  would  once  more  grab 
it  and  fold  it  down,  scolding  meanwhile.  If  Don 
were  wide  awake  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  this  per- 
formance in  the  least,  but  if  he  chanced  to  be  sleepy 
he  would  get  up  with  a  bored  air,  shake  out  the 
crockery  from  his  ear,  and  with  the  look  of  one  who 
says,  "For  Heaven's  sake,  why  can't  they  leave  me 
in  peace!"  walk  away  to  some  other  place.  Noth- 
ing discouraged,  Jim  would  slowly  follow  along  be- 
hind him,  keeping  an  eye  cocked  meanwhile  for  a 
fresh  bit  of  shiny  stuff  (even  a  bright  pebble  would 
do),  and,  when  Don  once  more  lay  down,  the  entire 
operation  would  be  repeated. 

One  could  never  be  certain  at  these  times  how  far 
Jim's  actions  were  purely  teleological — the  exercise 
in  captivity  of  instincts  upon  which  the  endurance 
of  the  wild  species  depends — and  how  far  there  was 
mingled  with  them  an  almost  human  love  of  teasing. 
For  Jim  unquestionably  loved  to  tease.  Of  that 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  He  knew,  too,  just  as  a 
dog  knows,  who  could  be  teased  and  who  couldn't. 
There  were  two  lambs  on  the  place,  one  a  stolid 


JIM    CROW  37 


creature,  and  one  of  totally  different  temperament, 
highly  excitable,  in  fact.  Jim  discovered  the  differ- 
ence after  a  single  trial.  As  they  were  frisking  about 
one  day  he  lit  first  on  the  back  of  one  and  then  on 
the  back  of  the  other,  sinking  his  claws  into  the 
wool  with  a  good  grip,  flapping  his  wings,  and  caw- 


Sinking  his  claws  into  the  wool  and  cawing  delightedly 

ing  delightedly.  One  lamb  paid  no  attention  to 
him,  but  the  other  immediately  took  fright  and  be- 
gan to  buck  like  a  broncho,  or  rather  an  animated 
sawhorse,  and  then  to  cavort  about  the  pasture  lot. 
Thereafter  Jim  confined  his  attentions  entirely  to 
her.  He  never  tried  to  ride  the  other  lamb,  but 
again  and  again  he  would  pounce  down  suddenly 
upon  the  poor  timid  one's  back,  set  up  a  great  flap- 
ping and  cawing,  and  speedily  enjoy  a  free  ride  over 
a  goodly  portion  of  the  surrounding  landscape. 


38  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIpLDS 

He  loved  to  plague  human  beings,  also.  Here  his 
method  was  simple,  but  to  a  stranger  at  least  highly 
effective.  It  consisted  of  perching  on  a  low-hanging 
limb  of  the  big  maple  in  the  dooryard  and  dropping 
suddenly  down  upon  the  head  of  the  unsuspecting 
caller.  Once  he  had  accomplished  his  purpose,  he 
would  fly  back  to  the  limb  and  sit  there  emitting 
sounds  .which  it  required  no  imagination  whatever 
to  construe  as  chortles  of  glee.  But,  among  fre- 
quent visitors  to  the  house,  and  among  the  regular 
occupants  as  well,  he  soon  learned  who  were  the 
ones  that  his  actions  annoyed,  and  confined  his 
attentions  to  them,  just  as  a  small  boy  will  jump 
from  behind  the  c'orner  with  a  loud  "Boo!"  only  at 
the  little  girls  who  scream  with  terror.  Jim  had  a 
particular  victim  of  the  timid  sex  from  whose  hair 
he  used  to  extract  the  hairpins  whenever  he  had  the 
chance,  flying  off  with  one  in  his  claws  and  uttering 
cries  of  diabolical  glee.  He  never  took  hairpins 
from  anybody  else. 

Jim — like  all  tame  crows  that  I  have  ever  had  any- 
thing to  do  with — in  spite  of  his  evident  desire  for 
human  companionship,  never  really  showed  any 
affection.  It  was  as  if  those  gregarious  instincts 
which  have  made  the  crow  family  so  successful  in 
the  evolutionary  struggle  were  merely  perverted  a 
little,  and  Jim  flocked  with  us.  Often  he  would 
hop  upon  the  window-sill  when  the  family  were 
inside,  and  peck  at  the  pane,  uttering  his  queer 
gibber  of  low  caws  and  crow  talk ;  but  it  was  merely 
to  induce  somebody  to  come  out  and  pay  attention 
to  him.  He  would  let  you  stroke  him  on  the  head — • 
would  even  beg  you  to,  in  fact;  but  that  was  merely 


JIM    CROW  39 


because  he  enjoyed  the  physical  sensation,  not  be- 
cause it  was  a  form  of  contact  with  one  he  loved,  as 
in  the  case  of  a  dog.  Try  to  put  your  hand  about 
his  body  and  pick  him  up,  and  away  he  would 
struggle,  with  an  angry  oath,  his  instinct  of  personal 
independence  roused  into  fierce  resentment.  After 
all,  a  crow  is  a  bird,  a  creature  of  the  air,  of  the  free 
spaces.  He  has  a  marvelous  adaptability  to  human 
companionship,  but  his  heart  remains  aloft. 

I  have  never  myself  heard  a  crow  talk.  There 
used  to  be  a  theory  when  I  was  a  boy  that  if  you 
slit  their  tongues  they  could  talk,  but  I  never  tried 
this  measure.  It  is  perfectly  easy,  however,  for  a 
fairly  lively  imagination  to  construe  the  incessant 
gibber  of  a  pet  crow  into  human  speech.  He  makes 
so  many  noises  that  some  of  them  are  mathemati- 
cally bound  to  resemble  certain  monosyllabic  and 
even  bisyllabic  words.  Jim,  for  example,  frequent- 
ly said  "Papa"  quite  as  plainly  as  most  babies  do 
when  they  are  being  shown  off  by  their  proud  par- 
ents. Certain  it  is  that  if  any  bird  could  be  taught 
to  use  speech  intelligently,  the  crow  could.  He  has 
a  perfectly  well-defined  language  of  his  own,  which 
is  unfailingly  understood  by  his  fellows.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  an  investigator  in  Washington, 
D.  C.,  could  distinguish  and  successfully  imitate  no 
less  than  twenty  different  crow  calls,  each  with  a 
specific  meaning.  This  may  be  an  exaggeration, 
but  any  observant  farmer's  boy  knows  half  a  dozen. 
Many  times  I  have  gone  out  into  the  fields  and  seen 
the  crows  walking  about  on  the  ground,  with  one  or 
two  sentinels  posted  in  conspicuous  trees  at  the 
edge  of  the  clearing,  and  heard  a  sudden  caw  go 


40  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

up  from  those  sentinels  as  they  spied  me.  That 
caw  meant  the  approach  of  danger,  yet  the  birds  on 
the  ground  would  keep  right  on  at  their  task.  Per- 
haps I  would  swerve  aside  and  turn  up  the  wood 
road,  and  nothing  more  would  happen.  On  the 
other  hand,  sometimes  I  would  pick  up  a  stick  the 
length  of  a  gun,  and  approach  the  bars  to  the  field. 
Then  the  sentinels  would  utter  another  caw,  sharper 
in  sound,  appreciably  different  from  the  first,  and 
instantly  every  bird  on  the  ground  would  rise  and 
disappear  into  the  woods  on  the  farther  side.  I  have 
done  this  time  and  again  to  make  sure  that  there  is 
a  difference  in  the  two  notes,  and  I  cannot  doubt  it. 
They  say  two  distinct  and  different  things ;  they  are 
definite  sentences.  Take  again  the  cawing  of  the 
crows  about  the  house  in  the  early  morning,  or  far 
off  across  the  upland  pasture  in  the  woods  where 
the  night  mists  still  trail  the  tree-tops.  The  note  is 
not  harsh;  softened  by  distance,  indeed,  it  is  posi- 
tively mellow.  It  speaks  of  sun-up  and  breakfast 
no  less  surely  than  the  song  of  the  meadow-lark  or 
the  fluting  of  the  white-throat.  Wandering  over 
the  uplands  when  the  crows  are  calling,  with  now 
and  then  a  glimpse  of  their  shining  black  bodies 
winging  against  the  blue  sky*  or  a  red  October 
maple,  you  have  a  sense  of  landscape  charm  pecul- 
iarly American,  and  the  caws  are  music  to  your 
ears,  the  folk-song  of  our  woods  and  cornlands. 
But  what  an  utterly  different  note  the  crow  emits 
when  he  is  on  the  war-path  or  gathering  in  angry 
council — gathering  in  a  caw-cuss,  as  the  old  New 
England  punsters  always  put  it.  When  the  crow 
cries,  "Here  is  corn  for  breakfast!"  we  hear  music 


JIM    CROW  4i 


over  the  fields.  When  he  cries,  "  Come  here,  quick, 
and  help  fight  this  owl!"  even  the  dullest  farmer's 
lad  knows  at  once  the  difference.  There  is  no 
doubt  but  the  crows  have  a  definite  language  of 
their  own,  and  no  doubt  but  it  contains  a  liberal 
mixture  of  profanity.  As  a  guest  once  remarked 
when  Jim  was  particularly  provoked  at  the  dog,  who 
had  grabbed  a  bit  of  meat  away  from  him,  and  was 
expressing  himself  freely  and  fully,  "That  crow's 
language  makes  a  barge-driver  sound  like  a  Sunday- 
school  superintendent" — an  expression  well  within 
the  facts. 

How  close  a  crow  is  to  the  intelligence  of  such  an 
animal  as  the  dog  has  been  attested  on  numerous 
occasions.  I  once  knew  of  a  pet  crow  many  years 
ago,  for  example,  which  belonged  to  a  small  boy  on  a 
farm.  The  boy's  grandfather  lived  a  few  hundred 
yards  away,  and  every  morning  of  the  year  the  crow 
flew  first  to  the  grandfather's  house,  waking  that 
old  gentleman  up  with  almost  clockwork  regularity 
(he  seldom  varied  more  than  fifteen  minutes,  though 
the  sun,  supposedly  his  timepiece,  varied  whole 
hours),  and  then  he  returned  and  roused  his  own 
family.  The  family -rousing  process  was  simple.  He 
perched  on  a  bedroom  window-sill  and  cawed. 
Sleep  thereafter  became  impossible.  If  you  are 
fond  of  sleeping  late  in  the  morning,  by  the  way,  do 
not  try  to  keep  a  pet  crow,  or  you  may  become  as 
profane  as  he.  It  was  this  same  crow  which,  greatly 
to  the  children's  delight  and  the  teacher's  wrath, 
followed  his  little  master  to  school  one  morning, 
pounced  upon  the  school-house  key  when  the  teacher 
dropped  it,  and,  flying  to  a  low  branch  over  her 


42  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

head,  sat  there  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  replying  sar- 
castically to  her  threats.  He  used  to  come  to  meet 
his  master  almost  every  day  when  school  was  out, 
again  telling  the  time  by  some  instinct  as  mysterious 
as  a  dog's,  and  either  riding  home  on  his  master's 
shoulder  or  else  flying  along  ahead,  lighting  on  the 
fence-posts.  It  was  the  same  crow,  too,  who  got 
into  the  house,  upset  a  bottle  of  ink,  investigated  the 
contents  with  his  feet,  and  then  walked  on  the  bed- 
spread. It  was  a  seven-day  wonder  in  the  neigh- 
borhood that,  because  of  his  master's  pleading,  his 
life  was  spared.  The  youngsters  looked  with  a 
kind  of  awe  upon  a  boy  who  could  put  up  such  a 
case  to  his  justly  irate  parents.  Demosthenes 
seemed,  by  comparison,  rather  second-rate. 

The  same  little  boy,  curiously  enough,  in  after- 
years  became  connected  for  a  time  with  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens  in  Washington,  where  they  had  a  large 
cage  containing  crows.  It  had  been  the  habit  to 
feed  these  crows  corn,  that  supposedly  being  their 
staple  diet,  though  it  might  have  occurred  to  the 
keepers  that  the  crow  in  its  natural  state  can  secure 
corn  but  for  a  week  or  two  in  late  May,  and  possibly 
for  a  time  at  harvest.  At  any  rate,  they  had  been 
dying  off  regularly,  constant  fresh  recruits  being 
necessary.  But  when  the  former  owner  of  the  mis- 
chievous Jim  arrived  he  spoke  out  of  his  experience, 
and  declared  that  crows  like  meat  and  probably 
need  it.  The  other  keepers  laughed  at  him,  but  he 
fed  these  birds  meat,  none  the  less,  and  the  deaths 
ceased.  It  is  apparent  to  any  observer  that  crows  are 
by  nature  meat-eaters,  and  in  captivity  they  appear 
to  prefer  a  meat  diet.  It  is  not  from  any  wanton 


JIM    CROW  43 


cruelty  that  they  sometimes  prey  on  the  eggs  and 
young  of  other  birds.  They  are  simply  after  food. 
A  year  or  two  ago  I  passed  through  Niagara  in 
midwinter  and  stopped  over  a  day  to  ride  through 
the  gorge  below  the  Falls  in  order  to  see  the  superb 
spectacle  of  the  great  ice-cakes  tossing  and  grinding 
in  the  whirl  and  chop  of  the  rapids.  After  the  first 
narrow  rush  of  the  river  was  over  and  the  stream 
widened  and  grew  comparatively  calm,  I  was 
amazed  to  see  almost  every  ice-cake  bearing  a  black 
rider.  At  first  I  could  not  trust  my  eyes,  and  asked 
a  native  if  those  riders  were  crows.  He  assured  me 
that  they  were,  and  that  they  were  fishing  for 
scraps  in  the  water.  I  watched  the  birds  for  nearly 
an  hour,  and  he  was  quite  right.  They  were  fishing 
for  scraps  of  food,  and  it  was  easier  and  probably 
safer  to  fish  from  the  edge  of  an  ice-cake  than  to  fly 
low  over  this  turbulent  current,  where  the  waves 
were  uncertain  in  their  sudden  up-jump,  and  in 
zero  weather  when  wet  feathers  meant  an  ice-coat. 
The  surrounding  country  lay  two  feet  deep  in  snow, 
so  that  food  was  probably  very  scarce.  But  here, 
on  this  stream  that  never  freezes,  floated  the  refuse 
of  the  towns  just  above,  and  the  crows  knew  it. 
They  rode  their  ice-cakes  in  countless  numbers — 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  them,  and  their  black 
bodies  winged  up  out  of  the  gorge  against  the  white 
Canadian  slopes.  They  were  for  the  most  part 
silent,  however,  though  now  and  then  a  faint  caw 
came  over  the  titanic  hiss  of  the  rapids.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  convincing  a  demonstration  as  I  had  ever 
seen  of  the  crow's  intelligent  adaptability  to  a 
changing  environment. 


44  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

But  the  very  next  week  I  saw  still  another  ex- 
ample. I  chanced  to  be  riding  through  Long  Island, 
and  in  many  of  the  fields  in  the  central  portion  corn- 
shocks  still  stood,  and  there  were  patches  of  oats 
here  and  there,  or  perhaps  only  single  stalks  ndw 
and  again,  missed  by  the  reapers  and  left  lying  on 
the  ground.  At  all  such  spots  the  crows  were  con- 
gregated. But  the  following  night  it  snowed,  and 
in  the  morning  I  saw  flight  after  flight  of  crows 
headed  south  toward  the  seashore,  without  doubt 
making  for  the  water's  edge,  where  they  could  still 
get  at  food,  either  shellfish  or  refuse  cast  up  by  the 
tide. 

Only  last  winter,  in  my  own  inland  hills,  I  watched 
the  crows  adapt  themselves,  on  a  much  smaller 
scale  (for  they  do  not  winter  with  us  in  any  large 
number),  to  the  necessities  of  the  snow.  The 
snow  was  very  deep,  and  most  of  their  vegetable 
food  was  no  doubt  scarce  or  inaccessible.  But 
through  a  meadow  ran  the  depression  made  by  a. 
little  rivulet,  and  here  and  there  along  its  banks  the 
water  had  worked  in  under  the  snow  cornice  till  the 
overhang  collapsed,  exposing  a  bit  of  black  mud,  or 
at  any  rate  but  slightly  covering  it.  Here  two  or 
three  crows  would  congregate,  being  startlingly 
visible  on  the  great  white  field  of  the  meadow,  and 
dig  into  the  mud,  even  scratching  away  the  snow  to 
expose  it.  Examination  of  their  work  showed  that 
they  had  excavated  and  devoured  crawfish,  and  no 
doubt  had  found  other  animal  life  as  well,  of  which 
no  remains  were  left.  That  same  winter,  too,  I  saw 
on  a  field  of  snow  about  six  inches  deep  a  remarkable 
evidence  of  the  crow's  acuteness  of  sense — which 


JIM    CROW  45 


sense,  vision  or  odor  or  reasoning,  I  cannot  say. 
Walking  over  this  field,  I  came  upon  two  footprints 
of  a  crow,  with  the  brush-marks  of  the  wings  on 
either  side.  Just  in  front  was  a  hole  into  the  snow, 
from  the  bottom  of  which  a  piece  of  mud-wasps' 
nest  had  been  extracted,  the  bodies  it  contained  (if 
any)  eaten,  and  the  gray  comb  dropped.  Now,  that 
bit  of  nest  was  buried  under  six  inches  of  snow,  and 
could  hardly  have  been  visible  from  above.  Yet 
the  crow  had  descended  exactly  to  it,  without  hav- 
ing to  take  a  single  step  after  alighting.  The  only 
explanation  I  can  give — except  the  improbable  one 
of  pure  chance — is  that  some  conformation  of  the 
snow  over  the  nest  disclosed  to  the  bird's  reasoning 
faculties  or  trained  instinct  the  presence  beneath 
of  something  worth  investigating.  In  my  own  oat- 
field,  after  the  snow  has  covered  the  mown  stubble, 
the  crows  walk  about  and  get  grain  with  a  sure 
instinct;  but  here  they  are  on  the  ground,  and 
hence  so  near  the  object  sought  that  other  senses  can 
aid  them. 

The  single  crow,  too,  not  only  shifts  wisely  for 
himself,  but  thinks  of  his  fellows.  They  are  co- 
operative workers.  The  tribe  survives  because  of 
tribe  instinct  no  less  than  individual  smartness. 
Last  winter  a  farmer  in  our  region  was  bringing 
home  on  a  wood-sledge  a  load  of  oats  from  the  village 
and  one  of  the  bags  fell  over  and  the  grain  trickled 
out  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  along  the  road  before  he 
discovered  the  accident.  That  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  next  morning  the  road  was  quite  liter- 
ally black  with  crows.  They  must  have  come  from 
miles  around,  for  but  few  had  been  noted  in  the 


46  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

neighborhood  previously.  Certainly,  both  around 
our  houses  and  in  the  woods,  the  chickadees  and 
j uncos  had  far  outnumbered  them.  Yet  some  bird, 
spying  the  life-saving  food  on  the  road,  had  spread 
the  word  in  a  night  through  all  the  countryside  and 
here  was  a  veritable  black  army  the  next  morning. 
Just  the  other  day,  late  in  March,  after  all  signs  of 
an  early  spring  and  the  return  of  many  birds,  we 
had  a  terrible  gale,  with  snow  and  freezing  cold. 
Hundreds  of  birds  perished.  But  on  the  second 
morning  I  saw  literally  hundreds — nobody  could 
count  them — of  crows  gathered  on  the  southern 
slopes  of  my  sheep  pasture  and  the  adjoining  aban- 
doned quarry,  where  a  freak  of  the  wind  had  kept 
the  ground  scoured  bare.  Before  the  storm,  only 
the  four  crows  which  spent  the  winter  with  us  had 
been  in  evidence,  yet  the  word  was  passed  around, 
evidently  for  miles,  that  here  was  salvation. 

The  crows,  indeed,  are  masters  of  mobilization. 
Nearly  every  one  who  has  lived  much  in  the  country 
with  his  eyes  open  has  probably  seen  an  example  of 
this.  Some  years  ago  I  was  walking  in  an  upland 
which  ran  like  a  deep,  narrow  fiord  into  the  woods 
on  the  western  wall  of  one  of  the  Franconia  hills.  I 
was  on  my  way  to  search  for  a  hermit-thrush's 
nest.  Suddenly,  over  my  head,  I  noticed  a  crow  in 
rapid,  excited  flight.  He  had  come  out  of  the  woods 
to  the  south,  and  flew  across  the  pasture  and  into 
the  woods  to  the  north,  keeping  close  to  the  tops 
of  the  pointed  firs  and  cawing  raucously  from  time 
to  time.  I  wondered  if  the  bird  which  had  just 
passed  over  my  head  were  not  a  courier,  so  I  sat 
down  to  wait.  In  a  very  few  moments  about 


JIM    CROW 


47 


twenty  crows,  flying  in  irregular  formation,  came 
out  of  the  firs  to  the  north,  went  swiftly  over  my 


A  great  horned  owl  flying  low  in  the  trees 

head,  and  disappeared  southward.     Shortly  after 
another  detachment  appeared,  and  then  another 


48 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  another  and  another.  Sometimes  there  were 
only  a  few  birds  at  a  time,  sometimes  as  many  as 
a  hundred,  flying  seldom  more  than  three  or  four 
abreast,  their  line  streaming  out  raggedly.  That 
first  northward-flying  courier  had  done  his  errand 
with  marvelous  rapidity!  The  birds  kept  coming 
for  half  an  hour,  I  should  say.  They  flew  for  the 
most  part  in  silence,  only  the  leaders  cawing,  as  if 
they  were  crying,  "This  way!  This  way!"  But  a 
far-off  noise  of  the  gathering  to  the  south  began  to 
come  faintly  to  my  ear,  as  it  was  augmented  by  new 
throats,  birds  doubtless  arriving  from  the  south  as 
well  as  the  north.  Unfortunately,  this  gathering  was 
well  up  on  the  precipitous  mountain-side  at  least 
two  miles  away  from  me,  and  between  lay  a  tract 
of  forest  which  had  been  lumbered  some  ten  years 
before,  and  .even  my  curiosity  to  learn  the  cause  of 
this  mobilization  could  not  induce  me  to  attempt  the 
passage.  Any  one  who  has  wrestled  with  old  lum- 
ber slash  on  a  mountain-side  will  understand. 

But  such  mobilizations  have  frequently  been  in- 
vestigated. Usually  they  prove  to  be  for  the  attack 
on  some  enemy.  Thoreau  speaks  of  the  crows 
"  bursting  up  above  the  woods  where  they  were 
perching,  like  the  black  fragments  of  a  powder-mill 
just  exploded."  When  they  are  gathered  for  war 
purposes  their  cries  will  lead  you  to  the  spot  where 
they  are  fighting,  and  these  same  bursts  of  black 
fragments  among  the  trees,  usually  following  an 
especial  uproar  of  cawing,  will  direct  you  to  the 
center  of  the  battle.  Walter  King  Stone,  the  illus- 
trator of  this  book,  and  Charles  Livingston  Bull 
have  told  me  of  a  mobilization  they  once  witnessed, 


JIM    CROW  49 


when  the  crows  gathered  for  hours,  and  the  two 
observers  were  able  to  penetrate  the  woods  to  the 
exact  spot  beneath  the  feathered  explosions.  There 
they  found  a  great  horned  owl,  flying  low  in  the 
trees,  with  a  dead  crow  in  his  talons.  Whether 
this  was  the  original  cause  of  the  battle,  or  whether 
he  had  grabbed  the  crow  in  one  of  the  descents  of 
the  birds  about  his  head,  they  of  course  could  not 
say.  He  was  evidently  struggling  to  find  a  dead 
tree  where  he  could  take  refuge.  He  was  saved 
probably  by  the  coming  of  night.  Crows  have  even 
been  known  to  attack  foxes,  as  Winslow  Homer's 
painting  is  the  most  famous  witness. 

A  farmer  near  my  home,  who  has  observed  crows 
for  many  years  and  has  the  reputation  of  knowing 
more  about  them  than  any  one  else  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, tells  me  that  almost  invariably  in  his  experi- 
ence the  cause  of  a  large  mobilization  is  either  a  big 
owl  or  a  hawk.  The  little  screech-owls  are  also 
attacked,  but  by  lesser  numbers.  He  has  also  per- 
sonally seen  the  crows  attack  a  fox  while  it  was 
crossing  an  open  field,  and  once  he  watched  a  flock 
of  nearly  a  hundred  crows  worrying  a  Skye-terrier 
dog,  which  was  so  thoroughly  frightened  that  it 
was  running  in  circles.  I  have  seen  crows  attack 
a  cat  also,  but  the  cat  always  is  wise  enough  to 
make  for  cover. 

Large  gatherings  of  crows,  however,  are  not  al- 
ways for  defensive  purposes.  Beside  the  great  win- 
ter roosts  you  will  see  flocks  of  from  fifty  to  a  hun- 
dred birds,  during  migration  periods  especially, 
which  appear  to  be  playing  a  game.  They  will 
wheel  and  circle  over  a  field,  cawing  loudly,  then  all 


50  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

suddenly  settle,  usually  on  the  ground,  remain 
silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  as  suddenly  rise 
and  begin  wheeling  and  cawing  again.  If,  at  such 
times,  you  approach  them,  they  scatter  and  do  not 
collect  again.  If  they  are  engaged  in  worrying  some 
foe,  however,  they  almost  invariably  regather.  At 
these  playtimes,  too,  their  cawing  has  a  different 
sound,  less  profane  and  raucous.  Are  there  any 
other  of  our  native  birds  which  even  appear  to 
play? 

But  the  crow  does  not  escape  attack,  in  his  turn, 
by  birds  smaller  than  himself,  upon  whose  eggs  and 
young  he  sometimes  preys — which  is  his  real  sin. 
Every  one  has  seen  a  crow  flying  along  a  New  Eng- 
land pasture  hedgerow  in  June,  and  heard  the  at- 
tendant startled  clamor  of  the  smaller  birds,  fearful 
for  their  young ;  and  every  one  has  probably  seen  a 
crow,  perhaps  the  same  marauder,  set  upon  by  a 
pair  of  king-birds — pugnacious  fellows  who  appear 
to  have  constituted  themselves  a  police  force — and 
driven  off.  They  fly  over  the  head  of  the  larger 
bird,  like  airplanes  over  a  dirigible,  and  dart  down 
savagely  from  time  to  time.  The  crow  never  rel- 
ishes these  attacks  any  more  than  the  hawk  does, 
and  usually  flies  for  cover  as  speedily  as  possible. 
Just  how  much  damage  the  crow  does  to  the  young 
of  the  smaller  birds  it  is  difficult  to  estimate,  if  not 
quite  impossible.  Edward  A.  Samuels,  in  his  book 
on  the  birds  of  New  England  and  adjacent  states, 
reports  some  very  destructive  pirates  which  came 
under  his  observation,  and  the  farmer  referred  to 
above  declared  to  me  recently  that  he  had  seen  one 
crow  rob  two  robins'  nests,  two  chipping- sparrows* 


The  crow  in  turn  is  attacked  by  smaller  birds 


JIM    CROW  51 


nests,  and  one  meadow-lark's  nest  in  a  single  hour. 
"I  have  watched  crows  with  field-glasses  from  my 
hilltop,"  he  adds,  " again  and  again,  and  I  never 
yet  kept  one  in  sight  for  two  hours  in  breeding- 
season  that  I  did  not  see  him  take  eggs  or  young  from 
at  least  one  nest."  This  is  a  severe  indictment, 
surely,  and  justifies  us  in  keeping  the  crows  from, 
becoming  too  numerous.  But  it  should  also  teach 
us  to  make  it  easy  for  them  to  get  meat  scraps  dur- 
ing the  breeding-season,  thus  preventing  many  of 
their  raids  on  the  nests  of  other  birds.  If  a  tame 
crow  does  not  molest  other  birds'  nests  because  he 
gets  all  the  meat  he  wants,  it  surely  shows  that  it  is 
the  meat  he  is  after,  not  the  sport  of  hunting.  It 
is  only  man  that  hunts  for  sport,  anyway.  Nearly 
all  birds  and  beasts  are  more  civilized. 

The  last  crows  I  have  had  an  opportunity  to 
observe  in  captivity  again  belonged  to  Walter  Stone, 
who  doesn't  object  to  being  waked  in  the  morning. 
There  were  three  of  them,  out  of  the  same  nest,  and 
from  them  we  learned  several  interesting  facts. 
For  one  thing,  we  observed  them  disgorge  food 
pellets,  like  owls — pellets  from  an  inch  to  an  inch 
and  a  half  long — which  could  be  examined  for  signs 
of  a  destructive  diet.  For  another  thing,  we  ob- 
served them  taking,  as  we  at  first  supposed,  dust- 
baths;  but  they  did  not  flutter  and  rub  about  as  a 
hen  does,  but  squatted  quite  still.  Investigation 
showed  that  they  thus  squatted  directly  in  large 
ant-hills.  We  could  think  of  no  reason  whatever 
for  this  action,  till  Stone  read  one  day  that  the 
poilus  in  France  spread  their  cootie-infested  shirts 
over  ant-hills  whenever  possible,  the  ants  destroying 


52  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

that  particular  vermin.  That  these  crows  had  made 
the  same  discovery  seemed  a  logical — the  only  logi- 
cal— explanation . 

But  the  most  interesting  thing  about  these  three 
birds  developed  after  two  of  them,  through  some 
disease,  lost  enough  of  their  flight  feathers  to  dis- 
able them  for  any  sustained  flight.  The  two 
crippled  birds  and  the  one  sound  bird  all  roosted 
at  night  on  the  upper  rungs  of  a  ladder,  under  the 
eaves  of  the  ell.  One  day,  however,  a  marsh-hawk 
came  over  the  garden,  discovered  the  crippled  con- 
dition of  the  two  weak  crows,  and  made  for  them. 
The  well  crow  instantly  attacked  him,  and  held 
him  off  till  the  others  were  under  cover  before 
taking  to  shelter  himself.  The  hawk  came  back 
presently,  however,  and  the  same  operation  was 
repeated. 

That  night  the  sound  crow  roosted  not  on  the 
ladder,  but  on  the  ridge-pole,  where  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  in  all  directions!  All  the  rest  of  the 
summer,  too,  he  roosted  there,  and  by  day  or  night 
he  was  alert  for  signs  of  the  approaching  hawk  and 
at  a  certain  warning  signal  his  •  two  companions 
would  scurry  as  fast  as  they  could  to  shelter,  while 
he  circled  overhead  and,  if  necessary,  gave  actual 
battle  to  the  invader.  There  could  not  have  been 
a  more  perfect  illustration  of  the  strong  protecting 
the  weak,  of  a  sense  of  communal  responsibility. 
These  two  weak  crows,  mind  you,  were  not  his  off- 
spring, but  his  brothers,  yet  he  at  once  accepted  the 
task  of  looking  after  them  and  bravely  fulfilled  it. 

After  such  an  exhibition,  and  after  the  repeated 
warnings  of  the  United  States  Bureaus,  that  a  whole- 


JIM    CROW  53 


sale  extermination  of  the  crows  would  be  exceedingly 
unwise,  as  is  any  violent  disturbance  of  the  balance 
of  nature,  I  confess  the  campaign  of  one  of  our 
largest  powder-manufacturing  companies,  just  after 
the  war  ended,  to  organize  a  "  National  Crow 
Shoot,"  filled  me  with  shame  and  indignation. 
Trading,  of  course,  on  the  average  farmer's  preju- 
dice against  crows,  and  the  average  person's  igno- 
rance of  them,  this  powder  company,  solely  to  sell 
more  shells  (which  fact  they  practically  confess 
in  their  circular  letter  of  January  29,  1919,  to  pow- 
der-dealers), goes  against  the  expressed  and  matured 
judgment  of  the  government  experts  and  endeavors 
to  slaughter  all  the  crows  it  can.  Powder  com- 
panies have  done  worse  things  than  this  in  the  past, 
to  be  sure.  They  have  even  encouraged  hatred  of 
men.  But  this  alone  is  sufficient  to  convince  me 
that  all  ammunition-works  should  be  owned  and 
controlled  by  the  government  and  conducted  with- 
out profit. 

In  spite  of  the  crow's  instinct  to  feed  on  the  eggs 
and  young  of  other  species  (which  he  shares  in  com- 
mon with  several  other  birds),  who  would  really 
wish  to  see  him  exterminated,  even  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  exterminate  so  resourceful  a  fellow?  His 
destruction  to  crops  is  certainly  far  less  than  that 
of  the  bobolink  in  the  Southern  rice-fields.  He  is 
an  efficient  scavenger,  and  his  destruction  of  white 
grubs,  cutworms,  wireworms,  and  grasshoppers  is  of 
great  value.  Above  all,  however,  his  place  in  our 
landscape  is  such  that  his  passing  would  leave  a 
dreary  void.  Winter  or  summer,  we  are  conscious 
of  him  against  the  sky,  against  the  fields,  or  senti- 


54  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

nel  on  a  patriarch  pine.  In  the  misty  mornings  of 
summer  when  the  sun  has  not  yet  rolled  up  the 
curtains  of  cloud  from  the  mountains  we  hear  his 
voice  far  off  in  the  woods,  rousing  us  from  slumber, 
and  when  autumn  has  come  and  our  sugar-groves 
are  a  glory  of  crimson  he  is  still  there,  his  distant 
call  floating  down  sweetly  from  the  upland  woods 
and  intensifying  in  some  strange  way  the  height  of 
the  peaks  beyond.  He  calls  over  the  peaceful 
meadows  of  Middlesex,  where  Thoreau  wandered; 
he  calls  from  the  wilderness  of  the  White  Hills,  from 
the  Long  Island  shore,  from  the  rapids  of  Niagara, 
from  the  corn-fields  of  the  West.  The  corn  itself 
is  not  more  American  than  he,  no  more  closely  woven 
into  the  texture  of  our  memories,  into  our  national 
consciousness.  Probably  we  could  not  exterminate 
him  if  we  would.  But,  after  all,  why  should  we? 


Winging  cheerily  against  the  whitened  landscapt 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 

THE  world  would  be  rather  a  dull  and  dolo- 
rous place  without  a  certain  type  of  jovial 
person  who  leavens  the  lump  in  any  com- 
munity. Such  a  person  my  grandmother  would 
have  described  as  "a  cheerful  little  body."  The 
" cheerful  little  bodies"  greet  you  with  a  smile,  they 
sing  or  whistle  at  their  work,  they  are  frankly  curi- 
ous about  your  affairs,  and  as  frankly  sympathetic. 
They  belong  to  the  limited  company  of  the  immor- 
tals who  get  up  cheerful,  who  can  take  an  interest  in 
life  before  breakfast,  and  are  still  interested  after 
dinner.  Needless  to  say,  they  are  in  good  health, 
and  very  often  inclined  to  a  certain  placid  and  pleas- 
ant plumpness.  In  a  word,  they  are  the  human 
chickadees. 

Everybody   who   knows   anything   at   all  about 


56  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

birds  knows  the  common  chickadee,  or  black- 
capped  titmouse,  as  he  was  perhaps  more  commonly 
called  by  our  forefathers — the  Par  us  atricapillus. 
And  to  know  him  is  to  love  him.  "  The  nightingale 
has  a  lyre  of  gold,"  the  skylark  pours  out  his  melody 
against  the  blue  empyrean — both  made  famous  by 
generations  of  Old  World  poets.  Our  own  hermit- 
thrush,  who  is  a  much  more  skilled  musician  than 
either,  with  a  more  exquisite  timbre  than  even  the 
nightingale,  has  no  classic  background  to  sing 
against,  and  because  his  song  reaches  its  perfection 
only  in  the  depths  of  the  Northern  woods  in  June, 
his  incomparable  melody  is  relatively  unknown; 
yet  echoes  of  his  prowess  have  reached  us  all.  Our 
minor  poets  have  celebrated  his  inferior  cousin,  the 
veery.  The  robin  has  almost  ceased  to  be  a  bird, 
and  become  a  symbol.  Edward  Rowland  Sill  has 
enshrined  him  in  poetry,  MacDowell  in  song — a 
wistful  song,  quite  unlike  the  buxom  and  ubiquitous 
bird's  own  domineering  melody.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
all  the  poets  have  done,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  us 
who  dwell  in  the  northeastern  section  of  the  United 
States,  from  Illinois  to  the  sea,  and  even  pretty  well 
south  along  the  ridges  of  the  Alleghanies,  would 
yield  to  any  other  bird  the  first  place  in  our  affec- 
tions held  by  the  little  chickadee. 

Other  birds  go  south  in  winter — the  chickadee 
remains.  He,  and  he  alone,  is  always  present 
either  about  our  dwellings  or  in  the  woods,  every  day 
in  the  year.  Other  birds  are  shy  of  man,  save  only 
that  pariah,  the  English  sparrow,  and  even  when 
they  build  nests  under  our  very  eaves  they  avoid 
human  contact.  But  the  chickadee  will  perch  on 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


57 


our  shoulders  and  eat  from  our  hand.  The  in- 
stinct of  other  birds,  when  man  passes  through 
their  leafy  retreats,  is  to  fly  farther  away.  The 


Other  birds  go  south  in  winter — the  chickadee  remains 

chickadee,  when  he  sees  us  coming,  flits  nearer  and 
nearer  inquisitively,  and  either  tweets  a  soft  little 
greeting  or  shouts  right  out  his  chick-a-dee-dee-dee- 
dee-dee-dee-dee.  Other  birds,  even  the  nuthatches, 
seek  shelter  in  the  winter  storms,  but  the  chickadee, 


58  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

his  black  cap  conspicuous  in  the  whiteness,  his 
feathers  fluffed  into  a  fat  ball  by  the  wind,  goes  buf- 
feting through  the  driving  snow,  just  as  cheerful 
as  ever,  a  five-inch-long  epitome  of  indomitable  good 
nature.  He  sings  when  all  else  in  nature  is  silent. 
And  he  sings  when  all  the  woods  are  musical — and 
holds  his  own!  He  is  the  bird  of  the  summer  pine 
woods,  and  the  snow-covered  window-ledge  in  win- 
ter, of  our  forests  and  our  dwellings.  One  chickadee 
is  worth  a  gallon  of  kerosene  emulsion,  considered 
utilitarianly.  Spiritually,  he  is  a  tonic  that  makes 
for  cheerfulness,  and  there  are  no  standards  of  value 
for  that. 

I  have  observed  the  chickadee  for  many  years. 
Indeed,  during  our  Berkshire  winters  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  observe  him;  he  attends  to  that!  Nor 
has  it  been  necessary  much  of  the  time  to  stir  out 
of  the  house.  We  welcome  the  first  good  snowfall 
for  many  reasons,  but  not  the  least  of  them  is  be- 
cause the  first  heavy  snow  brings  our  little  black- 
capped,  acrobatic  friends  into  the  pine  hedge  thirty 
feet  from  the  kitchen  door,  and  the  process  of  form- 
ing familiar  acquaintance  begins.  Food,  of  course, 
is  the  lure  which  attracts  and  holds  them.  Almost 
overarching  the  kitchen  door-steps  and  one  of  the 
dining-room  windows  is  an  apple-tree.  Between 
this  tree  and  the  pine  hedge  is  a  drive.  The  birds 
make  their  winter  roost  in  the  thick  protection  of 
the  pines,  but  they  use  the  bare  twigs  of  the  apple- 
tree  for  a  daytime  perch,  and  from  this  tree  they 
descend  to  pick  up  food.  Outside  both  the  kitchen 
and  dining-room  windows  we  have  built  flat  ledges 
eight  or  ten  inches  wide,  which  are  kept  free  from 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


59 


snow,  and  on  them  are  placed  pieces  of  suet  and  sun- 
flower seeds.     Even  before  the  snow  conies,  some 


The  first  snowfall  brings  the  chickadee  to  our  windows 

chickadees  and  possibly  a  pair  of  nuthatches  and  a 
pair  of  woodpeckers  have  discovered  the  provender 


60  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  make  periodic  visits.  But  it  requires  a  snow- 
fall to  drive  them  up  to  the  dwelling  in  considerable 
numbers.  A  day  after  the  ground  is  permanently 
covered,  however,  the  pine  hedge  is  alive  with  them, 
and  we  see  their  little  fat,  fluffed  bodies  twinkling 
in  the  bare  branches  of  the  apple-tree,  and  as  we 
are  seated  at  breakfast  suddenly  there  is  a  flutter  of 
wings  outside  the  window,  and  a  pair  of  bright,  bead- 
like,  marvelously  intelligent  eyes  look  in  at  us.  If, 
on  this  first  morning,  we  rise  from  the  table  and 
move  toward  the  window,  the  bird  will  probably 
take  flight,  dropping  the  seed  he  had  picked  up. 
But  in  a  very  few  days  he  gets  over  his  timidity. 
We  can  come  close  to  the  window  and  sit  with  our 
faces  not  a  foot  from  the  ledge  outside,  while  the 
bird  will  hop  about  selecting  a  seed  or  pecking  with 
his  tiny,  sharp  bill  at  the  piece  of  frozen  suet  with 
loud,  ringing  blows. 

A  bird  is  an  incredibly  quick  thing  in  all  his  move- 
ments. Watch  a  robin  crossing  the  lawn,  and  you 
will  be  hard  put  to  say  whether  he  runs  or  hops,  so 
fast  do  his  legs  move.  Watch  a  chickadee  pecking 
at  a  piece  of  frozen  suet,  and  again  you  will  be 
amazed  at  the  rapidity  of  his  blows,  and  also  at  the 
muscular  power  in  that  tiny  neck,  which,  under  its 
deceptive  ruff  of  downy  feathers,  can't  be  much 
thicker  than  your  little  finger.  His  whole  body  is 
scarce  larger  than  your  thumb.  Bang,  bang,  bang, 
goes  his  beak — and  then  he  suddenly  stops,  lifts  his 
head,  cocks  a  shiny,  twinkling  eye  at  you,  swallows, 
looks  around  at  the  landscape,  hops  off  the  suet, 
hops  on  again,  and — -bang,  bang,  bang,  go  the  blows 
of  his  beak 'once  more.  Birds  are  curiously  jerky 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


61 


in  their  movements  when  they  are  not  flying.     A 

few  rapid  acts — then  a  pause,  with  a  change  to  a 

fresh  position  for 
no  reason  that  you 
can  fathom.  When 
a  robin  is  hunting 
worms,  he  runs 
five  or  six  feet  like 
lightning,  stops 
short,  looks  up  to 
the  sky,  and  then 
suddenly  ducks  his 
head,  perhaps  pulls 
The  chickadee  up  a  worm,  and  goes 

on  again.     Even 

when  he  doesn't  pick  up  any  worms,  he  alternately 

runs  and  stands  still  contemplating  the  heavens. 

The   chickadee 

hammers   at   suet 

in   the   same  dis- 
jointed   manner. 

But  he  gets  what 

he's  after.     A  day 

or    two,    and    a 

pound    of    frozen 

suet  will  be  gone- 
suet  frozen  so  hard 

that  it  is  all  you 

can  do  to  pick  off 

a  crumb  with  your  or  black-capped  titmouse 

finger-nail. 

As  soon  as  the  birds  have  become  accustomed  to 

the  house,  to  the  dog,  and  to  the  human  beings,  we 


62 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

begin  the  process  of  coaxing  them  into  still  greater 
familiarity.  There  is  always  one  bird  braver  or 
more  friendly  than  the  rest,  possibly  an  old  fellow 
who  was  with  us  last  season,  and  sometimes  he  will 
eat  from  our  hands  several  days  before  the  others 
get  up  their  courage.  My  wife  is  much  more  suc- 
cessful as  a  chickadee-tamer  than  I  am,  possibly 
because  she  has  more  patience ;  but  in  the  course  of 
a  long,  hard  winter  we  have  frequently  had  a  whole 
flock  so  tame  that  they  would  come  not  only  to  our 
hands,  but  to  those  of  adults  and  even  children  visit- 
ing us. 

The  process  is  simple.  My  wife  puts  half  a  dozen 
sunflower  seeds  in  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  stands 
under  the  apple-tree  at  the  hour  when  the  birds  are 
most  hungry.  (They  are  comparatively  hungry  all 
the  time,  but  early  in  the  morning,  at  about  our 
lunch-time,  and  again  late  in  the  winter  afternoon, 
they  make  their  chief  meals,  with  innumerable 
snacks  between.)  Then  she  holds  out  her  hand 
invitingly,  looks  up,  and  usually  whistles  once  or 
twice  the  chickadee's  song — not  his  dee-dee  call,  but 
his  real  song: 


The  chances  are  that  several  birds  are  already  hop- 
ping and  twittering  in  the  apple-tree  overhead.  If 
they  aren't,  they  come  in  a  moment.  Every  bird 
has  his  eye  on  the  palmful  of  inviting  black  seeds. 
Every  bird  shows  unmistakable  signs  of  excitement, 
hopping  nearer  and  nearer  to  lower  and  lower 


THE  CHEERFUL  CHICKADEE    63 

twigs,  till  the  bare  tree  looks  exactly  like  one  of 
good  St.  Francis's  congregations.  Finally  one  bird, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  gets  on  the  very  lowest  twig 


He  makes  light  of  the  rigors  of  winter 

nearest  the  hand,  and,  like  a  small  boy  suddenly 
making  up  his  mind  to  dive  into  cold  water,  plunges 
off.  Very  often  he  is  terrified  before  he  quite 


64 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

reaches  the  hand,  and  puts  on  all  brakes,  beating 
back  with  his  wings.  But  the  bait  is  too  tempting. 
The  same  bird,  after  flying  away  to  the  pine  hedge 
for  a  moment,  almost  invariably  comes  back  to  his 
perch  over  the  outstretched  hand,  dives  again,  this 
time  alights  on  a  finger,  snatches  a  seed,  and  is  off 
with  it  into  the  pines.  The  other  birds  seem  plainly 
to  have  been  watching  the  outcome  of  his  experi- 
ment, for  soon  after  two  or  three  others  repeat  the 
operation — a  first  attempt  which  is  stopped  in  mid- 
air, and  a  second,  braver  trial  which  results  in  capt- 
uring a  seed.  The  next  day  these  bold  leaders  do 
not  hesitate.  They  come  at  once,  and  after  a  week 
or  two  of  deep  snow  the  whole  flock  will  have  be- 
come so  bold  that  merely  to  hold  out  a  palmful  of 
seeds  at  breakfast-time  is  to  bring  a  steady  proces- 
sion of  chickadees  to  perch  one  after  the  other  on 
your  finger. 

If  you  hold  the  seeds  on  your  bare  hand,  the  sen- 
sations of  the  tiny  claws  clutching  your  finger  with 
a  light  yet  strong  grip  is  quite  indescribable — a  deli- 
cate clutch  from  this  wild,  pretty  little  creature  of 
the  air,  this  mite  of  puffed  feathers  and  snapping, 
bright  eyes  which  somehow  warms  the  very  cockles 
of  your  heart.  Perhaps  the  flattery  of  the  bird's 
confidence  has  something  to  do  with  it. 

But  my  wife  doesn't  stop  with  calling  the  chicka- 
dees to  her  hand.  After  they  are  comparatively 
tame  and  fearless,  she  puts  a  sunflower  seed  be- 
tween her  lips,  tips  her  face  upward,  and  holds  out 
her  index  finger  as  a  perch  a  few  inches  from  her 
mouth.  Many  of  the  birds  will  now  fly  down  to 
her  finger,  perch  there  a  moment,  looking  directly 


THE  CHEERFUL  CHICKADEE    65 

into  her  face,  then  lean  forward,  take  the  seed  from 
between  her  lips  as  though  they  were  snatching  a 
kiss,  and  fly  off  with  it.  I  have  seen  a  chickadee 
perch  in  her  hair  also,  and  reach  down  across  her 
cheek  for  the  seed.  I  have  seen  one  on  her  finger 
and  one  on  her  hat-rim  at  the  same  moment,  each 
taking  a  seed,  for  she  held  two  in  her  lips.  If  there 
is  only  one  seed,  however,  the  well-bred  little  fel- 
lows never  fight  for  it,  at  least  not  in  our  dooryard, 
where  they  are  sure  of  plenty  more.  They  are  not 
nearly  so  ready  to  take  seeds  from  my  lips,  but  once 
or  twice  they  have  done  so.  Usually,  however,  they 
draw  back  when  they  get  close;  and  it  is  a  pretty 
sight  to  see  them  put  on  the  brakes  with  their  wings 
while  their  bright  eyes  still  look  hungrily  at  the 
food. 

The  chickadees  not  only  take  food  from  our  hands, 
however,  but  they  will  even  come  into  the  house  to 
get  it.  I  was  inclined  not  to  believe  this  at  first, 
but  Katie  convinced  me  by  bidding  me  sit  quietly 
in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  while  she  set  out  her 
dinner  close  to  the  door.  Then  she  left  the  door 
open,  put  some  seeds  beside  her  plate,  and  laid  a 
little  trail  of  them  conspicuously  on  the  white  cloth 
out  to  the  end  of  the  table.  She  herself  began  to 
eat,  paying  no  attention  to  the  birds.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  whir  of  wings,  a  bird  entered,  snatched 
a  seed  from  the  table,  and  flew  out.  A  second  bird 
came,  a  third,  and  soon  the  trail  was  carried  off,  and 
Katie  was  eating  her  dinner  with  two  chickadees 
actually  standing  on  the  table  within  six  inches  of 
her  plate!  Once  a  bird  hopped  up  on  the  edge  of  a 
dish  of  tomatoes  and  took  a  seed  out  of  that. 


66  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Of  course,  there  are  other  winter  birds  than  the 
chickadees  about  our  dwelling — nuthatches  always, 
for  you  meet  few  flocks  of  chickadees  without  at 
least  a  pair  of  "devil  downheads"  in  friendly  com- 
panionship, a  tree-sparrow  or  two,  and  usually  a 
pair  of  woodpeckers.  All  these  birds  feed  on  the 
window-ledge,  but  only  very  rarely  can  a  nuthatch 
be  persuaded  to  eat  from  the  hand,  and  the  others 
never.  The  occasional  flocks  of  pine-grosbeaks  do 
not  come  even  to  the  ledge.  They  are  shy  and  silent 
birds.  But  a  pair  of  red-breasted  nuthatches — • 
smaller  than  the  more  comjnon  variety — have  been 
with  us  for  three  winters  now.  They  are  an  extreme- 
ly ill-mannered  and  aggressive  pair,  too,  driving  off 
their  larger  cousins  till  they  themselves  have  eaten 
their  fill.  At  first  they  also  intimidated  the  chicka- 
dees, but  the  little  fellows  soon  rallied,  came  back 
with  a  counter  offensive  en  masse,  and  taught  the 
redbreasts  their  place. 

How  valuable  the  chickadees  are  as  insect-de- 
stroyers can  readily  be  observed  by  anybody  who 
watches  them.  Their  winter  appetite  is  voracious, 
for  it  must  require  a  deal  of  heat  to  keep  those  little 
bodies  warm  in  the  bleak  storms  and  zero  weather. 
I  have  seen  one  bird  eat  twenty  sunflower  seeds  in 
an  hour,  each  seed  being  for  him  the  equivalent  in 
size  of  an  English  muffin  for  you  and  me.  With 
their  short,  sharp,  powerful  little  bills  they  go  peck- 
ing busily  and  incessantly  all  over  the  trees.  But 
they  are  never  too  busy  to  pay  attention  to  the 
passing  stranger. 

Not  far  from  us  there  is  a  large  country  estate, 
with  a  walled  garden  deserted  in  winter.  Over  the 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


67 


wall  looks  an  apple-tree,  and  as  we  tramp  by  on  the 
snowy  road  we  have  only  to  pause  at  that  point 
and  whistle  to  bring  a  whole  flock  of  chickadees  into 


On  blackberry  stalks  by  gray  stone  wall  the  chickadees  are 
conspicious  objects 

the  branches.  They  are  the  only  live  things  visible 
on  the  white  face  of  nature.  They  come  down  into 
the  low  twigs  quite  close  to  us,  and  pretend  that  all 
they  came  for  was  to  pick  off  eggs  and  scale.  They 
hop  busily  about,  their  little  bills  tapping,  their 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


little  eyes  twinkling,  and  every  few  seconds  one  of 
them  does  a  flip-flop  to  some  other  twig,  swells  up 
his  throat,  and  peals  out  his  chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee- 
dee,  exactly  as  if  he  were  greeting  us. 

When  the  world  is  beautiful  with  its  winter 
mantle,  the  fields  white,  the  timbered  mountains 
reddish  gray  or  amethyst,  and  the  bare,  gracefully 
curving  blackberry  stalks  by  a  gray  stone  wall  a 
lovely  lavender,  the  chickadees  are  conspicuous 
objects,  in  spite  of  their  diminutive  size.  They  are 
as  conspicuous  as  a  robin  on  a  spring  lawn,  and  far 
more  decorative,  for  their  little  black  caps  and  their 
soft,  fluffy,  gray  bodies,  swaying  on  a  lavender 
berry  stalk  against  the  snow-white  fields,  or  perched 
on  a  roadside  rail  fence,  or  on  the  end  of  a  bare  twig 
that  comes  into  the  composition  like  the  inevitable 
branch  in  a  Japanese  print,  seem  always  to  tone 
into  the  simple  color  scheme  of  winter — to  fit  its 
minor  harmonies.  Even  in  the  deep  woods  the 
tiny  birds  become  conspicuous  at  this  season.  That 
flock  of  them  we  saw  flying  over  the  bare  fields 
toward  the  pine  cover  is  twittering  and  dee-deeing 
to  greet  us  when  we  arrive  in  the  hushed  naves  of 
the  forest,  and  one  little  fellow,  gray  against  the 
gray  bole  of  a  giant  chestnut,  flutters  lower  like  a 
bit  of  animated  bark,  to  see  who's  coming. 

From  the  fact  that  the  chickadees  remain  in  the 
North  the  year  round,  it  may  be  inferred  that  they 
are  either  extremely  clever  in  securing  food,  like 
the  crows,  or  else  extremely  liberal  in  their  choice  of 
a  diet.  Possibly  both  inferences  are  correct.  Frozen 
insects  and  eggs  from  trees,  weed  seeds,  pine  seeds, 
and  corn  they  can  usually  find  for  themselves,  and 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


69 


they  devour  all  of  them.  Personally,  from  watch- 
ing their  actions  on  apple-trees,  I  believe  they  eat 
oyster-shell  scale.  Like  almost  all  birds,  of  course, 


Perched  on  the  end  of  a  bare  twig  as  in  a  Japanese  print 

they  are  greedy  for  suet;  and  they  are  very  fond  of 
sunflower  and  pumpkin  seeds.  If  you  will  try  to 
break  a  sunflower  seed  with  your  finger-nail,  you 
will  realize  how  strong  their  little  bills  are,  for  they 
take  off  the  outer  shell  with  a  couple  of  rapid  mo- 
tions as  neatly  as  you  please.  If  you  follow  one  of 
them  down  in  the  winter  corn-field  where  a  few  ears 


TO IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

have  been  left  on  the  shocks,  or  perhaps  on  the 
ground  not  yet  covered  with  snow,  you  will  find  that 
they  drill  into  the  kernel  and  extract  the  meat,  again 
with  the  utmost  neatness.  In  common  with  other 
birds,  they  must  like  plenty  of  water  to  drink, 
though  I  have  never  seen  one,  in  spring  or  summer, 
in  our  bird  baths.  I  have,  however,  seen  their 
tracks  about  an  open  spring  in  the  woods,  where 
the  pheasants  also  came  in  great  numbers,  and  I 
have  seen  them  eat  ice  as  a  thirsty  dog  will  eat 
snow. 

Although  the  chickadee  is  such  a  friendly  little 
beggar  all  winter  long  (indeed,  the  season  through), 
when  he  is  merely  engaged  in  the  occupation  of  get- 
ting food  and  the  joyous  pastime  of  living,  when 
breeding-time  arrives  he  suddenly  becomes  highly 
secretive,  and  gets  as  far  out  of  sight  as  possible. 
No  doubt  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  the  species  has 
been  so  successful  in  the  fight  for  survival.  Like 
the  woodpecker  and  the  bluebird,  the  chickadee 
nests  in  a  hole.  Of  course  they  have  been  known 
to  select  holes  close  to  a  dwelling.  Walter  King 
Stone  tells  me  he  knew  of  a  pair  who  nested  in  a 
cranny  over  a  back  stoop  not  more  than  two  feet 
above  the  heads  of  the  passers.  We  now  have  an 
artificial  bird-box  in  the  apple-tree  by  our  kitchen 
window,  and  as  I  write  (in  early  May)  a  pair  of 
chickadees  have  been  hopping  in  and  out  of  it  for 
several  days.  But  so  far  as  we  can  observe  they 
have  been  engaged  rather  in  taking  the  sawdust 
out  than  taking  any  new  material  in.  The  same 
pair  have  removed  material  from  a  blue-bird  box 
near  by,  on  another  tree,  much  to  our  disgust,  for  a 


In  the  hushed  naves  of  the  forest 

pair  of  bluebirds  had  looked  the  property  over 
several  times,  and  apparently  were  much  pleased 
with  it. 

But  for  the  most  part  the  chickadees  pick  out  a 
well-hidden  and  rather  remote  hole  for  their  nest, 
sometimes  in  an  old  fence-post,  more  often  higher 
from  the  ground,  in  a  tree  in  the  woods.  Some 


72  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

writers  say  they  excavate  these  holes  for  them- 
selves, but  I  have  never  seen  a  nest  in  a  hole  which 
didn't  appear  to  have  been  already  dug.  The  act- 
ual nest  is  made  of  wood  fiber,  wool,  hair,  fine 
moss,  feathers,  or  other  soft  material.  They  take, 
the  hair  where  they  can  get  it.  Thoreau,  who  loved 
the  chickadees  and  used  to  watch  them  pecking 
bread  out  of  the  French-Canadian  woodchopper's 
hand  in  the  Concord  woods,  records  a  nest  in  a  small 
maple  stump  which  seemed  to  be  made  of  bluish- 
slate  rabbit's  fur.  Mr.  Stone  has  seen  a  chickadee 
taking  hair  from  the  back  of  a  Jersey  cow  for  two 
hours.  If  they  take  hair  from  a  cow,  they  un- 
doubtedly used  to  take  it — and  perhaps  still  do 
in  the  deep  woods — from  the  backs  of  the  deer. 
They  lay  a  sizable  number  of  little  white  eggs, 
with  rusty,  reddish  -  brown  spots.  The  young 
birds,  when  they  get  their  feathers,  are  indescrib- 
ably adorable;  but  it  is  not  often  that  you  will 
see  them.  The  male  and  female  birds  do  not 
differ  in  appearance,  so  it  is  usually  impossible 
to  determine  which  is  the  mother,  except  in  the 
incubating  season. 

The  song  of  the  chickadee  is  very  simple,  but  to 
many  ears  very  beautiful  in  its  absolute  definiteness 
of  interval.  Of  course,  the  better  known  chick-a-dee- 
dee-dee-dee-dee  is  not  its  song.  That  is  more  like 
its  college  yell,  into  which  it  breaks  at  periodic  in- 
tervals out  of  sheer  exuberance  of  spirits.  Neither 
is  the  song  that  tinkling  little  lisp  with  which  it 
talks  to  you  from  the  low  twigs  of  an  apple-tree  as 
you  pass  by.  Its  song  is  the  exquisitely  clear  whistle 
which  is  most  commonly  heard  in  spring,  and  which 


THE  CHEERFUL  CHICKADEE    73 

is  undoubtedly  associated  with  the  love  life  of  the 
bird— 


Some  bird  writers  render  this  whistle  by  two  notes 
instead  of  three,  and  Thoreau  constantly  speaks  of 
the  Phce-be  note  of  the  chickadee.  But  in  many 
years  of  constant  residence  among  the  chickadees 
of  western  Massachusetts  I  have  never  heard  one 
which  did  not  break  up  the  second  tone  clearly 
and  sharply  into  two  quarter-notes,  and  Mr.  Stone 
agrees  with  me  in  this.  Nor  is  it  true  that  the 
song  is  confined  to  spring,  though  it  is  then  most 
frequently  heard.  It  comes  occasionally  out  of  the 
depths  of  the  summer  pines  or  the  pasture  hedge- 
rows, and  very  often  we  hear  it  floating  over  the 
frozen  fields  of  winter,  an  exquisite  and  a  cheering 
note,  the  chickadees* 

"If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind?" 

F.  Schuyler  Matthews,  in  his  excellent  Field  Book 
of  Wild  Birds  and  Their  Music,  says:  "Few  small 
birds  whistle  their  songs  so  clearly,  and  separate  the 
tones  by  such  lucid  intervals.  The  charm,  too,  of 
the  chickadee's  singing  lies  in  the  fact  that  he 
knows  the  value  of  a  well-sustained  half -note,  an- 
other point  which  should  be  scored  in  the  little  musi- 
cian's favor."  Still  another  is  that  the  chickadee  so 
far  recognizes  the  musical  intervals  of  his  song  that 
he  will  answer  those  notes  when  you  whistle  them. 
We  can  go  out  into  our  yard  at  any  hour  of  the  day 


74  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

in  spring — indeed,  during  the  winter,  too — and 
whistle  a  couple  of  times,  to  be  answered,  from  near 
or  far,  by  a  bird.  After  he  has  once  answered  you, 
he  will  keep  up  the  conversation,  the  musical  dia- 
logue, as  long  as  your  patience  holds  out,  like  a  dog 
chasing  a  stick.  Mr.  Matthews  records  a  curious 
thing  about  this  performance.  He  has,  he  says, 
frequently  persuaded  the  chickadee  to  come  down 
to  a  lower  pitch  by  setting  his  own  whistle  lower, 
but  he  has  never  been  able  to  persuade  the  bird  to 
go  back  to  the  original  one  after  the  descent. 

While  it  is  easy  for  anybody  to  induce  the  chick- 
adee to  answer  his  whistle,  comparatively  few  people 
can  imitate  the  timbre  well  enough  to  call  the  birds 
directly  to  them.  The  artist  for  this  book  can, 
however,  and  it  is  a  quaint  spectacle  which  would 
have  delighted  the  good  Saint  of  Assisi  to  see  him 
with  a  fat  little  fellow  on  his  head,  another  on  his 
hand,  and  still  another  on  his  shoulder,  actually 
answering  the  whistle  directly  intahis  mouth!  The 
oddest  part  about  this  performance  is  that  no  mat- 
ter how  many  birds  come  to  the  call,  first  into  over- 
hanging branches  and  then  to  his  person,  only  one 
of  them  does  the  replying,  and  that  bird  is  the  only 
one  which  appears  excited.  He,  however,  is  mani- 
festly wrought  up.  His  feathers  fluff,  his  move- 
ments are  rapid,  he  is  conspicuously  restless. 

This  song,  undoubtedly,  is  connected  with  the 
mating  and  domestic  life  of  the  chickadees.  I  have 
records  of  observations  which  show  that  a  bird 
bringing  food  uttered  it,  that  it  was  answered  by 
the  mate  inside  the  nesting-hole,  and  that  she  then 
appeared  out  of  the  hole  and  took  the  food.  Not 


THE    CHEERFUL    CHICKADEE 


75 


all  of  us  humans  summon  our  wives  in  so  charming 
a  manner! 

It  was  an  amusing  incident  of  the  Lenten  season 
just  past  that  our  good  rector,  dutifully  minded  of 


In  search  of  food  in  a  winter  corn-field 

his  calling  on  a  warm  Sabbath,  when  spring  was  in 
the  air  and  the  stained-glass  windows  were  lowered, 


76 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

letting  in  perforce  the  natural  light  of  heaven, 
preached  a  sermon  upon  the  lusts  of  the  flesh.  (I 
have  this  on  hearsay  only,  but  my  informant,  who 
is  also  my  conscience,  my  collaborator,  and  at  times 
my  cook,  cannot  be  doubted.)  As  the  good  man 
thundered  against  those  instincts  which,  no  doubt, 
needs  must  be  thundered  against  or  we  might  sup- 
pose the  world  a  really  rather  pleasant  place,  outside 
in  a  breeze-blown  elm  a  chickadee  sat  and  pro- 
claimed his  desire  for  a  mate,  punctuating  each  pul- 
pit period  with  his  three  sweet  pagan  notes.  It  was, 
I  submit,  an  amusing  incident,  though  nobody  (so 
my  informant  tells  me) ,  least  of  all  the  good  rector 
intent  upon  demolishing  the  lusts  of  the  flesh, 
seemed  aware  of  it. 

Cheerful,  happy,  brave,  musical  little  bird,  whom 
Thoreau  loved  and  Emerson  praised! 

This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 
Fronts  the  north  wind  in  waistcoat  gray, 
As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behavior. 

Like  the  dog,  you  flatter  us  with  your  friendliness, 
you  protect  our  trees,  you  sing  of  summer  when  the 
woods  are  bare,  you  sing  of  love  when  the  south  wind 
comes,  you  put  life  and  music  into  our  bleakest  land- 
scapes. May  your  supply  of  sunflower  seeds  never 
grow  less  on  hospitable  window-ledges! 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE 


EVERY  mouse  in  the  fields  and  meadows, 
every  rabbit  that  crouches  under  the  thick- 
et, every  grouse  and  pheasant,  even  fish  and 
frogs  and  muskrats  in  the  waters  and  the  squirrels 
and  song-birds  of  the  forest,  live  under  a  menace  from 
above,  no  less  terrible  to  them  than  the  Zeppelin  to 
London,  and  far  less  effectively  combated.  They  live 
under  the  menace  of  the  raptores,  or  birds  of  prey, 
the  eagles,  hawks,  falcons,  and  owls,  certain  species 
of  which  are  still  far  commoner  than  the  ordinary 
person  supposes,  even  in  the  settled  sections  of  our 
northeastern  states.  The  terror  comes  to  them  out 
of  the  air,  it  drops  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  and 
kills  with  extraordinary  strength  and  ferocity.  Mere 
size  is  little  protection,  for  a  goshawk  will  easily  kill 
a  rooster  and  even  carry  him  off.  That  menacing 
shadow  over  the  hen-yard  which  causes  such  a  com- 


78 IN   BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

motion  on  a  still  summer  day  in  reality  hovers  over 
all  the  land  of  the  little  wild  folk,  by  night  as  well 
as  by  day,  and  tragedy  falls  like  the  traditional  bolt 
from  the  blue  in  open  field  and  sedgy  marsh  and 
silent  forest.  On  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  March, 
1918, 1  found  a  strange  record  on  my  mountain-side/ 
The  body  of  a  small  skunk  dangled  over  a  bent  sap- 
ling, about  four  feet  from  the  ground.  Beneath  were 
snow  and  mud,  without  a  track  in  them.  The 
skunk  showed  no  mark  of  shot,  nor  had  there  been 
any  hunters  in  that  vicinity.  He  could  hardly 
have  climbed  up  and  straddled  a  sapling  to  die  a 
natural  death;  besides,  there  were  blood-marks  on 
his  head,  throat,  and  back.  In  all  probability  he 
had  been  killed  by  a  great  horned  owl,  that  being  one 
of  the  few  creatures  I  know  which  have  any  fond- 
ness for  skunks,  and  either  dropped  because  the  owl 
wasn't  hungry  or  else  placed  on  the  limb  prepara- 
tory to  eating,  the  owl  having  been  scared  away 
before  the  meal  could  begin.  At  any  rate,  I  could 
see  no  other  explanation. 

It  was  on  the  eighteenth  day  of  March  this  same 
year  that  I  first  noticed  the  hawks  so  prominent  in 
the  air.  It  was  also  the  day  that  bird  song  and  spring 
warmth  were  first  apparent.  Walking  along  a  high- 
road above  a  pine-filled  valley,  I  heard  a  loud  com- 
motion in  the  trees,  and  suddenly  a  score  of  crows 
burst  up  above  the  pines  like  black  fragments  of  an 
explosion.  In  their  midst  was  a  bird  of  about  the 
same  size,  which  speedily  made  off.  Four  crows 
went  in  pursuit,  however.  I  was  too  far  away  to 
make  out  with  any  certainty  what  variety  of  hawk 
this  bird  was,  and  the  light  was  in  my  face,  in  addi- 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE  79 

tion.  It  was  probably  a  Cooper's  hawk.  But  I 
could  see  the  four  crows  fly  over  him,  and  dart  down 
every  few  feet  to  take  a  peck  at  his  head.  Mean- 
while the  crows  which  remained  behind  kept  up  an 
incessant  racket  in  the  pines.  The  hawk  made  no 
effort  to  fight  back,  nor  did  he  even  seem  greatly 
annoyed.  Without  any  attempt  to  dodge  or  change 
his  line  of  flight,  he  gradually  accelerated  his  speed, 
swung  down  wind,  and  disappeared,  the  four  crows 
being  left  astern  after  about  a  mile.  Just  what  he 
had  done  to  annoy  them  I  cannot  say.  He  may 
have  been  hungry  and  attacked  one.  But  it  doesn't 
pay  to  attack  a  crow.  E  pluribus  unum  is  their 
motto.  Literally  thousands  of  crows  will  gather  in 
less  than  two  hours  to  attack  a  great  horned  owl 
which  has  killed  one  of  their  number.  As  a  rule, 
I  doubt  if  the  hawks  and  owls  trouble  the  crows  very 
much,  even  though  their  nests  are  so  similarly 
placed  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  trees. 

I  had  hardly  finished  watching  this  little  battle 
over  the  pines  when,  on  looking  upward,  I  saw  a 
big  red-tailed  hawk  (the  large  bird  commonly  and 
mistakenly  called  a  " hen-hawk")  sailing  far  aloft  on 
almost  motionless  pinions.  It  is  a  beautiful  flight, 
this  of  the  red-tailed  hawk,  only  exceeded  in  con- 
summate ease,  perhaps,  by  the  turkey  buzzard  of 
the  South,  which  is  undoubtedly  the  king  of  aero- 
nauts. He  was  sailing  in  great  circles,  apparently 
aimless,  and  it  seemed  incredible  that  from  such  a 
height  he  could  see  his  prey  on  the  earth  below,  even 
prey  as  large  as  a  rabbit,  not  to  mention  mice,  which 
are  the  chief  staple  of  his  diet.  Yet  he  was  prob- 
ably intently  watching  the  earth  beneath,  as  his 


8o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

great  loops  swung  him  northward  (much  like  the 
connected  capital  O's  we  used  to  have  to  push 
across  the  page  of  our  "writing-books"  at  school), 
and  sooner  or  later  he  would  drop  from  his  aerial 
pathway  and  swing  aloft  again  with  his  quarry. 

That  same  day  I  saw  a  third  hawk,  sitting  quietly 
on  top  of  a  large  log  in  a  pasture  within  two 
hundred  feet  of  the  trolley  track.  The  car  was 
moving  rapidly,  so  I  had  little  time  for  observa- 
tion, but  it  seemed  to  be  a  red-shouldered  hawk, 
which  is  a  trifle  smaller  than  the  red-tailed,  but 
rather  closely  resembles  it,  especially  in  habits  of 
flight.  I  could  see,  however,  that  the  noisy  pas- 
sage of  the  trolley  did  not  disturb  this  bird  in  the 
least.  He  was  facing  in  the  opposite  direction,  with 
his  head  down,  as  if  he  were  watching  the  ground. 
It  may  be  there  was  some  quarry  beneath  that  log 
which  he  was  waiting  for.  A  cat  at  a  mouse-hole 
can  be  no  more  patient  than  a  hawk. 

It  is  by  no  means  true  that  all  hawks  are  seriously 
destructive  of  desirable  bird  and  animal  life.  The 
so-called  " hen-hawk"  is  a  case  in  point.  Because 
this  hawk,  and  the  red-shouldered  hawk,  also,  have 
soared  in  their  great,  beautiful  circles  high  above 
our  clearings  since  the  first  settlers  came,  and  be- 
cause hawks  do  unquestionably  raid  poultry-yards 
and  kill  pigeons  and  wild  game-birds,  the  most 
conspicuous  raptores  have  had  the  burden  of  re- 
proach heaped  upon  them.  Yet  actually  the  red- 
tailed,  or  "  hen-hawk, "  does  probably  as  much 
good  as  harm  to  the  farmer  and  the  community. 
In  that  monumental  work  The  Birds  of  New  York, 
by  Elon  Howard  Eaton,  is  a  table  of  stomach  con- 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE  81 

tents  from  all  the  varieties  of  hawks  and  owls 
found  in  New  York  State,  compiled  from  many 
careful  investigations.  In  only  10  per  cent,  of  the 
red-tailed  hawks  was  any  trace  of  poultry  or  game, 
and  in  only  9  per  cent,  any  trace  of  other  birds.  The 
red-shotildered  had  a  still  smaller  percentage.  In 
both  species  50  per  cent,  showed  mice,  and  45  per 
cent,  of  the  red-shouldered  showed  insects.  Doctor 
Eaton  classes  the  red-tailed  hawk  as  ''near  the  bor- 
der-line of  beneficent  birds,"  however,  and  he  puts 
the  common  marsh-hawk  in  the  same  rather  doubt- 
ful class,  because  of  its  raids  on  birds,  along  with  the 
barred  and  snowy  owls.  He  leaves  in  the  unques- 
tionably injurious  class,  as  birds  of  prey  which  should 
be  exterminated,  only  these:  the  goshawk,  Cooper's 
hawk,  sharp-shinned  hawk,  duck-hawk,  pigeon- 
hawk,  and  great  horned  owl.  They  are  the  ones 
which  do  the  real  damage,  both  goshawks  and  great 
horned  owls,  for  example,  showing  as  high  as  36  and 
25  per  cent.,  respectively,  of  poultry  and  game  in  the 
stomach  contents  examined,  while  the  pigeon-hawk 
showed  85  per  cent,  of  other  birds,  and  the  duck- 
hawk  35  per  cent,  of  poultry  and  game  and  45  per 
cent,  of  other  birds.  In  none  was  there  any  com- 
mensurate percentage  of  mice  or  insects  to  balance 
this  destruction. 

So  far  as  my  own  state  of  Massachusetts  is  con- 
cerned, there  is  no  doubt  that  the  goshawk  during 
the  severe  winter  of  1917-18  was  the  most  serious 
menace  to  all  our  small  wild  game,  next  to  the 
weather,  and  even  a  serious  menace  to  our  domestic 
fowls.  Not  only  did  this  vicious,  cruel,  and  in- 
credibly swift  and  powerful  bird,  supposedly  an 


82  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

inhabitant  of  the  North,  visit  regions  where  hitherto 
he  was  comparatively  unknown  in  any  such  num- 
bers, but  he  seemed  to  be  displaying  a  tendency  to 
remain,  at  least  for  all  the  winter  months.  It  may 
be  he  will  yet  have  to  be  reckoned  as  our  worst 
winged  enemy.  I  collected  that  winter  a  few  re<j- 
ords  of  his  exploits  from  my  own  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, which  can  be  duplicated,  probably  over 
most  of  New  England  and  New  York.  The  total 
amount  of  his  destruction  was  certainly  huge. 

For  example,  a  single  goshawk  near  the  city  of 
Pittsfield  wantonly  killed  seventeen  pigeons,  carry- 
ing away  only  one  of  them  to  eat.  A  goshawk  in 
Sheffield  was  seen  by  a  farmer  to  swoop  upon  a 
pheasant  in  a  field  and  kill  it.  Another  farmer  lost 
several  hens,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  was 
close  by  when  the  raid  was  made,  but  could  never 
get  his  gun  up  quick  enough  to  bag  the  hawk. 
Finally  this  hawk  killed  and  managed  to  carry  off  a 
full-grown  Plymouth  Rock  rooster.  As  the  goshawk 
stands  but  twenty-one  to  twenty-two  inches  high, 
and  weighs  considerably  less  than  the  fattened  fowl, 
you  can  gather  some  idea  of  its  power.  There  were 
numerous  other  records  of  domestic  fowl  and 
pigeon  killing,  and  tales  by  the  hunters  of  pheasants, 
grouse,  and  even  rabbits  slaughtered  by  this  pirate 
of  the  air.  It  is  fortunate  for  us  that  the  bird  does 
not  yet  breed  so  far  south  as  this.  Though  a  few  of 
our  woodsmen  maintained  that  the  following  spring 
the  goshawks  were  showing  signs  of  breeding  here- 
abouts, there  was  no  real  evidence  obtainable  that 
they  ever  did  so. 

Several  specimens  were  shot  that  winter,  one  or 


The  duck-hawk  nests  on  the  ledges  of  rock  precipices 

two  by  irate  farmers  who  watched  the  hen-yard,  gun 
in  hand,  from  a  cover.  The  goshawk  is  certainly  a 
savage-looking  specimen,  when  properly  mounted, 
the  adult  being  slate-blue  and  gray,  with  black  on 
the  head,  and  having  the  longish  body  of  the  Cooper 
hawk,  with  more  muscular  power  in  it,  fierce  talons 


84  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  beak,  and  a  flashing  eye.  Every  line  of  him 
looks  cruel — and  is  cruel.  Like  the  mink  and  weasel, 
he  butchers  for  the  sheer  love  of  killing,  even  when 
he  isn't  hungry.  He  and  the  duck-hawk  are  the 
Prussians  of  the  bird  kingdom. 

The  duck-hawk,  fortunately,  is  rather  rare,  or  at 
least  it  is  rare  in  settled  communities,  because  it 
builds  its  nest,  or  its  apology  for  a  nest,  on  the 
ledges  of  rock  precipices  (like  the  golden  eagle) ,  and 
consequently  more  or  less  requires  a  mountain 
country  to  breed  in.  The  duck-hawk  (which  is 
seventeen  inches  long,  considerably  smaller  than 
the  "hen-hawk"  or  goshawk)  belongs  to  the  falcon 
family — it  is  the  Falco  peregrinus  anatum,  and  prac- 
tically identical  with  the  European  peregrine  falcon 
of  the  romantic  days  of  falconry,  those  heroic  days 
of  old  which  we  of  the  modern  high-power  rifle  and 
soft-nosed  expanding  bullet  think  so  cruel  and 
bloody.  The  falcons  differ  from  the  hawks  some- 
what in  their  bills  and  talons,  which  are  even  better 
adapted  for  tearing  and  seizing  prey,  and  in  the 
relatively  greater  length  and  pointed  character  of 
their  wings.  The  peregrine  falcon,  or  duck-hawk,  is 
undoubtedly  a  splendid  bird  if  you  judge  him  solely 
by  strength  and  speed  and  cunning  in  flight.  He 
most  often  seizes  his  prey  on  the  wing,  and  now 
that  water-fowl  are  scarce  he  takes  about  any  birds 
he  encounters,  dropping  upon  them  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  leaves  them  no  chance  for  escape. 

The  duck-hawks  often  nest  year  after  year  in  the 
same  place,  apparently  either  the  same  birds  or 
young  of  the  parent  birds  returning  to  the  familiar 
cliff.  On  Sugar  Loaf,  a  curious  formation  near 


The  red-tailed  hawk  dropping  from  his  aerial  pathway 

Deerfield,  Massachusetts,  and  also  on  the  precipi- 
tous ledges  of  Monument  Mountain  in  Stockbridge 
(the  mountain  celebrated  by  Bryant  in  a  poem), 
there  have  been  duck-hawks'  nests  for  over  a  gener- 
ation. The  nesting-place  on  Monument  can  only 
be  reached,  as  a  rule,  with  _an  Alpine  rope,  and 
since  the  eggs  are  laid  before  the  ist  of  May,  while 


86  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

the  cliff  is  still  wet,  the  egg-hunter  takes  his  life  in 
his  hands.  Last  year,  for  the  first  time,  I  did  not 
see  the  birds  about  the  mountain  at  all,  and  three 
ascents  of  the  cliff  with  a  rope  disclosed  nothing 
•except  a  partridge's  nest  on  a  dry,  mossy  shelf.  My 
observation  was  not  continuous  nor  thorough 
enough  to  say  definitely  that  they  were  not  there, 
but  apparently  this  historic  pair  of  birds  have  met 
their  end  at  last.  I  cannot  help  hoping  so,  for  they 
took,  I  am  sure,  a  tremendous  toll  of  bird  life,  in- 
cluding, I  know,  many  meadow-larks  and  flickers. 
Their  hunting  range,  too,  is  great.  I  cannot  say 
how  great,  but  once  or  twice  when  I  was  on  the 
mountain  summit  I  have  seen  one  of  them  coming 
from  over  the  mountain  on  the  far  side  of  the  valley, 
winging  much  like  a  pigeon,  from  regions  at  least 
fifteen  miles  away.  If  they  hunt  over  a  circle  of 
only  thirty  miles  in  diameter  (and  probably  it  is 
very  much  more)  the  territory  a  pair  can  cover 
is  considerable.  The  Cooper  and  sharp-shinned 
hawks  (smallish  hawks,  of  fifteen  to  eighteen  and 
ten  to  twelve  inches,  respectively)  can  be  told  apart 
because  the  Cooper  has  a  rounded  tail,  the  sharp- 
shinned  a  square  tail.  Both  may  be  told  from  the 
small  falcons — i.e.,  the  so-called  sparrow  and  pigeon 
hawks,  because  the  falcons  have  long,  pointed 
wings,  the  hawks  short,  rounded  ones.  Both 
Cooper  and  sharp-shinned  hawks  breed  in  the  lati- 
tude of  New  England  and  New  York,  and  even  as 
far  south  as  Florida.  Both  build  nests  in  forest 
trees,  the  sharp-shinned  selecting  almost  always 
evergreens,  the  Cooper  taking  an  old  crow's  nest 
when  convenient.  They  are  true  hawks  in  habit, 


The  sparrow-hawk  is  a  pretty  little  falcon  that  does 
more  good  than  harm 


coursing  low  through  the 
pursuit  of  their  game  and 
foliage  with  uncanny  skill 
toll  of  bird  life,  from  song 
pheasants,  and  in  summer 
which  are  really  responsible 
stealing.     I  have  seen  one 


trees  and  shrubbery  in 
employing  the  cover  of 
,     They  take  a  terrible 
-birds  up  to  grouse  and 
they  are  the  two  hawks 
for  most  of  the  chicken- 
come  up  to  an  orchard 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


where  hens  were  scratching,  keeping  the  trees  be- 
tween him  and  his  quarry  till  he  was  close  by.  Then 
he  swooped  like  lightning  in  under  the  branches, 
seized  a  chicken,  and  rose  with  it,  all  before  a  man 
could  have  reached  for  a  gun  and  fired.  The  illus- 
trator of  this  book  tells  me  he  once  saw  a  sharp- 
shinned  hawk  fly  so  low  he  seemed  to  be  actually 
hugging  the  ground.  He  reached  a  thick  hedge, 
simply  flowed  up  over  it,  and  landed  in  a  flock  of 
pigeons  on  the  other  side,  killing  two  of  them  before 
they  knew  he  was  anywhere  about.  Personally, 
I  disapprove  of  egg  hunting  and  collecting.  There 
are  plenty  of  available  collections  for  study,  and 
most  eggs  would  do  more  good  as  birds  than  as 
neglected  " specimens"  amid  the  clutter  of  a  boy's 
den.  But  if  the  boy  can  be  taught  to  distinguish 
the  eggs  of  the  Cooper  and  sharp-shinned  hawks, 
the  more  he  collects  the  better !  It  will  not  benefit 
his  clothes,  but  it  will  help  the  community  and  all 
the  beneficent  birds. 

The  sparrow-hawk  (a  small  falcon)  and  the  marsh- 
hawk  (which  may  be  distinguished  unfailingly  by 
the  white  upper  tail  coverts)  should  both  be  allowed 
to  live,  perhaps — the  former,  at  any  rate.  Their 
food  for  the  most  part  consists  of  mice,  insects,  and 
so  on,  although  both  take  a  certain  toll  of  bird  life, 
especially  the  marsh-hawk.  At  the  worst,  they  are 
South  Germans,  not  Prussians.  The  sparrow-hawk 
is  a  pretty  little  falcon,  with  considerable  rosy  color 
on  him,  and  is  seen,  perhaps,  more  often  than  almost 
any  bird  of  prey  by  the  average  unobservant  person, 
because  he  often  sits  on  roadside  telegraph  poles  or 
courses  over  the  fields.  I  have  seen  them  over  the 


The  marsh-hawk 

prairie  close  to  the  edge  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
and  even  in  the  heart  of  a  city.  Mr.  Stone  records 
that  once  he  had  a  studio  in  Washington  near  the 
Treasury  Building  and  a  pair  of  sparrow-hawks 
came  daily  to  a  telephone  pole  close  by  and  lay  in 
wait  for  the  English  sparrows,  which  they  appar- 
ently took  to  their  young  somewhere  in  a  concealed 


9o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

courtyard.  (They  often  nest  in  hollow  trees.)  This 
would  seem  to  suggest  possibilities  to  those  com- 
munities which  are  infested  with  sparrows.  A  few 
pairs  of  sparrow-hawks  on  every  block  would  soon 
clean  things  up! 

The  marsh-hawk  (which  is  a  medium-sized  bird, 
about  seventeen  inches  long)  has  apparently  the 
habit  of  hunting  over  a  regular  beat.  I  have  records 
of  this  from  points  as  distant  as  New  England  and 
Mexico  (the  latter  recorded  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull).  In  each  case  the  bird  always  appeared  from 
a  certain  quarter,  followed  a  definite  line  of  flight 
while  under  observation,  and  disappeared  at  the 
same  place.  When  the  marsh-hawk  notes  some  dis- 
turbance in  the  grass  or  gets  sight  of  a  mouse  or 
young  woodchuck  or  desirable  insect,  he  suddenly 
stops,  mounts  a  little,  hovers  watching,  and  then 
strikes  with  great  speed.  It  is  estimated  that  a 
pair  will  account  for  eleven  hundred  mice,  small 
birds,  and  other  prey  in  the  ten  weeks  of  incuba- 
tion and  rearing  of  a  family.  Were  it  not  for  the 
fact  that  something  over  25  per  cent,  of  this  total 
is  sure  to  be  birds,  the  marsh-hawk  would  not  be  a 
bad  fellow  to  have  around.  At  the  worst,  he  is 
listed  only  as  "  doubtful"  by  most  ornithologists. 
To-day  I  stopped  my  motor  beside  a  wide  field  and 
watched  one  hunting.  He  flew  low — not  over 
twenty  feet  up — and  paid  no  attention  whatever  to 
the  other  birds,  which  were  numerous.  He  was  in- 
tently watching  the  ground  as  he  flew,  and  when 
he  finally  struck— too  far  away  for  me  to  see  clearly 
—it  was  at  something  on  the  ground,  probably  a 
field-mouse.  On  the  other  hand,  in  March,  when 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE          91 

there  were  still  no  insects  and  the  mice  were  still 
hidden,  I  watched  a  marsh-hawk  flying  over  the 
fields  beside  a  small  pond.  He  found  nothing,  and 
crossed  the  water.  On  the  other  shore  he  suddenly 
poised  himself  in  mid-air  for  a  long  moment,  then 
dropped  to  a  height  of  only  a  few  feet,  and  shot  up 
over  a  little  headland  of  shrubs,  coming  down  into 
the  bushes  on  the  other  side.  As  he  swooped,  I  saw 
several  small  birds,  probably  song-sparrows,  scatter 
with  little  cheeps  of  terror  into  the  densest  part  of 
the  shrubbery.  As  they  scattered,  the  hawk 
wheeled  and  dodged  about,  trying  to  snatch  one  out 
of  the  air.  He  then  rose  twenty  feet,  hovered  over 
the  spot  for  some  time,  and  eventually  decided  it 
was  no  use,  darting  swiftly  away.  The  episode, 
however,  did  not  make  me  feel  very  pleasantly 
toward  him. 

Eagles  are  becoming  so  rare  in  the  East  now  that 
few  people  ever  see  one.  Sometimes  they  think 
they  see  one,  when  it  is  in  reality  the  big  osprey,  or 
fish-hawk.  That  noble-looking  and  vicious-acting 
brute,  the  golden  eagle,  who  nests  on  inaccessible 
cliff  ledges,  has  been  driven  more  and  more  into 
remote  mountain  fastnesses.  But  the  bald  eagle 
still  is  found  occasionally.  In  December,  1917,  one 
was  seen  in  southern  New  Hampshire,  and  the  next 
day  one  was  shot  in  Maynard,  Massachusetts,  while 
eating  a  pig  he  had  just  killed.  Presumably  it  was 
the  same  bird  seen  in  New  Hampshire  the  day 
before.  Twenty-five  years  ago  we  used  to  see  bald 
eagles  rather  frequently  both  in  Rhode  Island,  along 
the  salt  ponds,  and  in  the  wilder  parts  of  the  Berk- 
shires  and  the  White  Mountains.  But  they  are 


92 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

encountered  less  and  less  often  now.  You  have  to 
seek  the  high  Rockies  to  find  them  a  characteristic 
feature  in  the  aerial  perspective. 

But  the  owls  we  have  with  us  still.  The  taxi- 
dermists agree  that  more  great  horned  owls  were 
brought  in  the  last  two  winters  than  in  any  season 
for  years.  In  fact,  the  supply  of  artificial  eyes  for 
the  stuffed  specimens  was  entirely  exhausted  before 
the  winter  of  1917-18  was  over.  Probably  this 
means  that  the  severe  cold  added  many  birds  from 
the  north  to  our  resident  population.  The  great 
horned  owl,  or  "  six-hooter "  as  he  is  called  in  the 
Adirondacks,  because  of  his  "song,"  is  the  bad  citi- 
zen among  the  owl  tribe.  (His  "song,"  however,  is 
by  no  means  always  of  six  hoots.)  He  is  a  big  bird, 
standing  often  a  full  two  feet  high,  and  weighs  about 
four  pounds.  He  hunts  by  night,  as  a  rule,  but 
more  than  once  he  has  been  caught  out  in  the  day- 
time, and  I  have  known  of  one  with  a  crow  in  his 
talons,  pursued  by  thousands  of  live  crows,  in  full 
day.  The  crows  did  not  molest  him  while  he 
was  perched,  but  when  he  attempted  to  fly  they 
swarmed  down  upon  him.  It  was  in  deep  woods, 
and  the  uproar  could  be  heard  a  mile  away.  He 
did  not  escape  till  darkness  came.  One  of  these 
big  owls  can  easily  kill  a  hen,  or  even  a  turkey, 
and  on  farms  which  adjoin  the  wild  forests  where 
the  owls  love  to  nest  (in  hollow  trees  or  even  in 
old  crows'  nests)  they  are  often  a  serious  pest. 
They  also  kill  skunk,  woodchuck,  game-birds,  and 
rabbits,  as  well  as  song-birds  and  mice.  The  call 
of  the  great  horned  owl  is  generally  represented  as 
follows:  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo,  whoo,  whoo.  It  doesn't 


The  great  horned  owl,  or  "six-hooter" 

sound  unlike  the  long-drawn  toot  of  a  distant 
freight-engine.  An  owl  on  my  mountain  last  win- 
ter invariably  omitted  the  first  whoo. 

I  have  found  but  one  record  of  a  snowy  owl  in 
western  Massachusetts,  though  they  not  infre- 
quently come  down  the  seacoast  in  winter,  from 
their  northern  home,  even  as  far  as  Long  Island. 


94 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

This  one  appeared  a  few  years  ago,  and  was  capt- 
ured single-handed  by  an  old  lady.  She  heard  a 
commotion  just  at  twilight  in  her  chicken-yard, 
rushed  out,  and  saw  the  great  white  bird,  a  total 
novelty  to-  her,  endeavoring  to  rise  with  her  pet 
rooster  in  his  talons.  The  rooster  was  putting  up 
a  good  scrap,  and  the  old  lady  rushed  to  his  assist- 
ance, armed  with  her  apron.  She  got  the  apron 
over  the  owl,  and  actually  succeeded  in  getting  him 
into  the  house,  though  both  she  and  the  apron 
showed  the  marks  of  the  contest.  One  of  the  men- 
folks  then  appeared  and  killed  it,  and  it  is  now  a 
treasured  ornament  of  the  front  parlor. 

The  barn-owl  is  not  found  in  our  region  either, 
which  is  a  pity,  for  he  is  not  only  one  of  the  most 
humorous-looking  creatures  in  the  feathered  king- 
dom, running  a  close  race  for  first  honors  with  the 
penguin  and  the  puffin,  but  he  is  also  a  great  de- 
stroyer of  rodents,  far  exceeding  the  much- vaunted 
barn  cat,  which  usually  prefers  milk  to  mice.  I 
have  often  wondered  why  the  bird  societies  do 
not  try  the  experiment  of  distributing  barn-owls  to 
regions  where  they  are  not  at  present  found.  The 
same  barn-owl,  in  Europe,  lives  in  deserted  castles 
and  haunted  towers  and 

.  .  .  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Undoubtedly  he  is  also  the  owl  who,  on  a  certain 
famous  and  romantic  evening,  "for  all  his  feathers 
was  acold."  It  is  rather  curious  that  two  birds  so 
famous  in  Old  World  song  and  legend  as  the  pere- 


The  snowy  owl 

grine  falcon  and  the  barn-owl  should  play  so  slight 
a  part  in  our  New  World  life.  The  barn-owl,  at 
least,  deserves  recognition  and  protection.  Some 
years  ago  a  colony  of  barn-owls  lived  in  the  Smith- 
sonian tower  in  Washington,  entering  and  leaving 
by  a  broken  window.  Somebody  mended  this 
window,  thus  killing  all  the  owls  inside  and  driving 
away  all  who  were  outside  at  the  time.  A  careful 


96 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  expert  examination  of  the  dead  birds,  the  pel- 
lets, and  the  nests  showed  that  the  owls  of  this 
colony  had  been  taking  a  tremendous  toll  of  rodents 
and  small  pests;  they  had  been  a  positive  asset  to 
the  surrounding  community. 

Many  observers  maintain  that  the  barred  owl 
(which  is  somewhat  smaller  than  the  great  horned, 
and  is  often  called  the  " eight-hooter,"  because  his 
call  has  eight  notes)  is  now  more  common  than  his 
larger  cousin.  This  is  probably  true  in  many,  if 
not  most,  sections  of  Massachusetts,  though  hardly 
here  where  I  live,  I  think,  in  the  mountains  and 
close  to  extensive  tracts  of  woodland.  The  barred 
owl  is  not  a  robber  like  the  great  horned.  He  lives 
chiefly  on  mice  and  other  small  mammals,  and 
should  be  protected.  The  following  note  from  the 
illustrator  is  interesting  and  vivid. 

"Once  I  was  fishing  for  bullheads  at  night  on 
Lake  Catherine,  near  Poultney,  Vermont,  and  I 
heard  a  barred  owl  and  answered  him.  Inside  of 
half  an  hour  I  had  three  in  one  tree  on  the  edge  of 
the  lake;  I  could  even  hear  them  squabbling  and 
flapping  among  the  limbs  of  the  tree.  They  kept 
answering  me  for  an  hour  or  more.  When  I  began 
calling  I  could  hear  them  approach  down  the  moun- 
tain by  stages — first  far  off,  then  nearer,  then  from 
the  lake  margin,  and  then  an  interval  and  the  voice 
would  come  from  the  nearer  shore,  the  owl  having 
flown  across.  It  was  exciting." 

I  fancy  that  for  most  Americans  the  little  screech- 
owl  (so  called,  though  he  doesn't  screech)  really  in- 
spires the  romance  which  in  Europe  is  the  possession 
of  the  barn-owl.  That  soft,  mournful,  prolonged 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE  97 

whistle  of  his,  that  quavering  note  as  if  he  always 
had  his  vox  Humana  stop  pulled  all  the  way  out — 
whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo — oo — oo — oo — has  been  heard  by  all 
of  us,  winter  and  summer,  in  the  still  night,  often 
from  the  orchard  beside  the  house.  Many  a  night, 
as  a  boy,  I  have  lain  in  bed  and  listened  to  the  owl 
calling  from  his  hole  in  an  old  apple-tree,  while  the 
November  wind  rustled  the  dead  leaves  on  the  oak 
beside  my  window  and  a  delicious  melancholy  stole 
over  me.  Many  a  time,  too,  I  have  seen,  in  the 
daytime,  the  face  of  the  little  fellow  peering  from  a 
hole,  and  watched  it  fade  mysteriously  from  sight 
as  I  drew  near,  much  like  the  Cheshire  cat  when 
conversing  with  Alice.  However,  if  you  poked  your 
hand  down  into  the  hole,  it  was  no  spirit  nip  you 
got  on  the  finger!  The  screech-owl,  something  like 
the  black  bear,  has  a  red  phase.  (The  so-called 
cinnamon  bear  is  not  a  separate  species.)  Certain 
observers  have  sought  to  explain  this  by  differences 
in  diet.  Doctor  Eaton  discovered  that  the  red- 
owls  he  examined  had  been  eating  crayfish.  As  the 
screech-owls  in  the  Mississippi  Valley,  where  cray- 
fish are  abundant,  are  more  often  red  than  gray, 
there  would  seem  to  be  some  basis  for  the  theory. 
The  little  fellows  nest  in  early  spring,  laying  their 
eggs  in  New  England  before  May  ist,  and  they 
often  use  an  old  flicker-hole.  Undoubtedly,  the  owls 
could  be  persuaded  into  artificial  boxes,  and  this 
should  be  done.  Not  only  are  they  beneficial  birds, 
hunting  mice  eagerly,  but  their  faces  at  the  nest 
hole  by  day  are  odd  and  pretty  sights,  and  when 
they  are  caught  outside  the  nest  and  puff  them- 
selves out  or  draw  themselves  up  straight  and  thin, 


98  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

to  look  like  a  strip  of  bark,  they  are  excellent  ex- 
amples of  the  protective  instinct  at  work. 

Last  spring,  in  April,  we  enjoyed  for  several  even- 
ings a  curious  experience.  In  a  meadow  near  our 
farm,  and  beside  the  road  under  the  mountain  wall, 
suddenly  appeared  a  flock  of  screech-owls.  There 
must  have  been  twoscore  at  the  least.  Evidently 
they  foregather,  something  like  crows,  at  the  news  of 
good  hunting,  and  make  a  clean-up.  This  meadow, 
which  also  comprised  a  garden  and  corn-field  where 
the  corn  had  stood  shocked  all  winter,  was  no  doubt 
full  of  mice.  Beginning  at  sundown  and  keeping 
it  up  till  about  nine  or  nine-thirty,  the  owls  hunted 
over  this  field  for  five  or  six  nights,  and  then  dis- 
appeared again.  They  flew  low,  back  and  forth, 
and  as  they  flew  they  kept  up  their  quavering  call, 
which,  when  they  are  on  the  wing,  is  fairly  loud  and 
sounds  a  little  like  a  kind  of  mournful  laughter. 
The  air  was  so  full  of  this  sound,  which  would  come 
rustling  at  you  overhead,  and  grow  fainter  into  the 
distance  as  the  dim,  receding  form  of  the  bird  was 
outlined  against  the  late  twilight  sky,  that  it  was 
strangely  unreal,  almost  as  if  you  stood  with  Dante 
on  a  brink  where  the  lost  souls  fluttered  past.  Only 
the  shrill  peeping  of  the  hylas  kept  the  sense  of  our 
familiar  fields  in  April.  I  had  never  seen  so  many 
owls,  of  any  sort,  at  one  time  before. 

There  is  one  bird  not  classed  with  the  raptores 
which  visits  us  in  winter  and  must  be  included 
among  those  foes  of  animal  or  bird  life  which  swoop 
down  out  of  the  air.  It  is  the  Northern  shrike,  or 
butcher-bird.  He  is  purely  a  winter  visitor  in  the 
East,  and  I  think  is  growing  much  less  common. 


The  dim  form  of  a  screech-owl  outlined  against  the  twilight  sky 


THE    MENACE    FROM    ABOVE          99 

The  Northern  shrike  is  a  little  over  ten  inches  in 
length,  gray  on  top,  with  black  tail  and  wings.  On 
each  wing  is  a  white  spot,  and  the  ends  of  the  tail 
feathers  are  white.  He  will  pursue  a  winter  bird 
like  a  tree-sparrow  or  chickadee  or  nuthatch  re- 
lentlessly through  trees  and  thickets  till  the  poor 
little  thing  is  exhausted,  when  the  shrike  kills  him 
by  a  blow  on  top  of  the  head  and  carries  him  off. 
One  of  his  curious  tricks  is  to  impale  his  prey  on  a 
thorn  or  the  barb  of  a  fence.  If  you  have  ever 
found  a  small  bird  or  mouse  thus  impaled,  he  was 
probably  put  there  by  a  shrike.  The  captor  per- 
haps was  later  scared  away,  or  he  may  even  have 
killed  for  the  love  of  it,  without  any  intention  of 
eating  his  prey.  One  of  the  oddest  shrike  tricks  I 
have  seen  recorded  is  that  described  by  an  observer 
in  Birds  of  New  York.  This  bird  was  hunting  spar- 
rows near  the  railroad  yards  in  Green  Island,  New 
York.  He  caught  two  and  impaled  them  on  the 
point  of  a  lightning-rod  at  the  top  of  a  brick  chim- 
ney a  hundred  and  forty  feet  high.  A  pair  of  field- 
glasses  were  used  to  verify  the  fact. 

On  a  little  artificial  pond  near  my  farm  we  have 
seen  domestic  ducks  pulled  under  and  killed  by 
snapping-turtles  (the  submarine  menace) ;  we  have 
seen  fish  taken  by  an  osprey  (the  hydroplane  men- 
ace); we  have  seen  hens  and  pheasants  and  other 
creatures  killed  by  hawks  and  owls  (the  airplane 
and  Zeppelin  menace).  When  it  comes  to  cruelty, 
even  in  our  little  world  of  farms  and  peaceful  hills 
and  lovely  forests  nature  has  given  man  most  of 
his  lessons;  which,  to  be  sure,  is  hardly  a  valid 
excuse  for  man,  at  that. 


BY    INLAND 
WATERS 

IT  was  the  terrific  winter  of  1917-18,  which  will 
live  in  many  a  memory  like  a  nightmare,  with  our 
soldiers  sailing  away  to  France,  our  coal-supply 
almost  gone,  and  such  cold  wrapping  the  land  as 
the  oldest  inhabitant  had  reluctantly  to  confess  he 
couldn't  remember.  In  my  corner  of  New  England 
we  had  nearly  three  feet  of  snow  on  the  level,  and 
for  a  week  at  a  time  in  January  and  February  the 
thermometer  would  barely  reach  up  to  zero  at  noon. 
At  times  it  went  to  thirty  below.  It  was  in  such 
weather  that  Walter  Stone  telephoned  to  me  one 
day  to  come  down  to  his  village  in  Connecticut,  just 
over  the  Massachusetts  border,  bringing  my  snow- 
shoes.  He  met  me  at  the  end  of  the  trolley,  and 
together  we  started  out  along  a  back  road  which 
roughly  parallels  the  Housatonic  River.  The  river 
here,  for  the  most  part,  flows  with  a  slow,  steady 
pull  and  does  not  readily  freeze,  but  now  it  was 


BY    INLAND    WATERS  101 

frozen  solid  from  bank  to  bank  and  the  ice  was 
covered  with  snow,  making  a  white,  winding  drive- 
way between  the  steep  banks  and  the  overhanging 
willows.  Cresting  a  sharp  rise,  which  shut  the  river 
from  view,  we  climbed  a  fence  and  moved  softly 
across  a  little  field.  A  moment  later  we  were  look- 
ing down  upon  the  river  from  an  elevation  of  forty 
or  fifty  feet,  at  a  point  where  it  has  bitten  its  way 
through  a  hill,  forming  a  narrow  gorge,  and  flows  so 
rapidly  that  even  this  Arctic  weather  could  not 
entirely  freeze  it.  There  was,  perhaps,  three  hun- 
dred feet  of  open  water  in  midstream,  a  slash  of 
black  velvet  in  the  white — of  black  velvet  fringed 
with  a  little  green  watered  silk  as  the  sun  flashed  on 
the  exposed  edges  of  the  ice. 

His  finger  on  his  lips,  my  companion  pointed 
down  to  the  scar  of  open  water,  and,  following  his 
gesture,  I  saw  first  two,  then  three,  then  five  Ameri- 
can mergansers,  quietly  and  busily  engaged  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  livelihood  in  this  chill  element. 

We  watched  them,  fascinated,  for  a  considerable 
time.  Their  methods  of  fishing  seemed  to  be  varied, 
but  that  most  employed  was  to  work  up  to  the  head 
of  the  open  water,  either  by  swimming  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  ice  and  taking  advantage  of  all  the  back- 
waters or  else  by  climbing  out  and  waddling  up  on 
the  ice  itself,  and  then  swimming  down  with  the  cur- 
rent, head  bent  close  to  the  water,  eyes  alert.  The 
ducks  would  make  the  three-hundred-foot  trip  time 
and  time  again  without  results,  till  you  might  have 
supposed  they  were  merely  playing  a  game,  coasting 
down  the  swift  current,  as  it  were.  But  now  and 
then  one  would  suddenly  tip  forward  and  under, 


102 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

completely  disappearing,  to  emerge  again  near  the 
edge  of  the  ice,  lower  down,  perhaps  to  climb  out 
and  swallow  what  he  had  caught,  if  he  was  lucky 
enough  to  get  anything.  We  were  not  near  enough, 
unfortunately,  to  see  what  the  food  was.  Occa- 
sionally a  duck  would  fish  by  squatting  patiently 
on  the  edge  of  ice,  neck  and  head  out  over  the 
water,  suddenly  to  dive  in  like  a  small  boy  at  the 
old  swimming-hole  when  a  carryall  comes  by  on 
the  road,  while  others  swam  about  in  a  back-water, 
revolving  with  the  eddy. 

Presently  we  either  made  some  noise  or  motion 
which  alarmed  them  or  else  they  agreed  among 
themselves  that  the  fishing  was  getting  poor  here 
(as  indeed  it  was),  for  one  by  one  they  suddenly 
rose  and  flew  northward,  carefully  following,  at  a 
height  of  about  seventy-five  feet,  the  curves  of  the 
river,  no  doubt  seeking  other  spots  of  open  water. 
It  was  interesting  to  see  them  take  the  air.  The 
mergansers  cannot  rise  instanter — from  a  standing 
start,  as  it  were.  Their  first  motions  are  clumsy. 
Facing  against  the  current,  each  one  seemed  to 
heave  himself  up  till  he  stood  on  the  water,  wings 
out,  and  then  he  ran  up-stream,  his  feet  kicking 
back  much  like  the  stern  paddles  of  an  old  Missis- 
sippi River  steamer,  till  he  got  headway.  But  when 
the  needed  headway  was  secured  those  bright  orange 
legs  folded  under  him,  the  orange  feet  made  a  spot 
of  color  behind,  the  long  body  straightened  out,  the 
neck  extended  forward,  and  with  a  steady  beat  of 
wings  the  bird  went  by,  on  the  level  of  our  faces  as  we 
watched  from  the  high  bank,  with  the  speed  and  the 
directness  of  the  arrow  which  its  body  now  resembled. 


You  might  have  supposed  the  mergansers  were  merely  playing  a 
game — coasting  down  ike  current 


BY   INLAND   WATERS 103 

When  they  had  gone  we  shivered,  looking  down 
at  the  icy,  empty  water  and  thinking  of  its  tempera- 
ture. 

This  bird,  of  course,  is  the  sheldrake,  sawbill,  or 
wheezer  of  our  boyhood,  one  of  those  birds  we  used 
to  shoot  at  but  never  secured,  for  even  when 
wounded  (we  were  always  sure  we  had  wounded  one) 
the  merganser  would  dive  and  be  lost  to  us.  The 
loss,  however,  was  not  great,  for,  like  all  wild-fowl 
subsisting  exclusively  on  fish  and  other  live  food,  its 
flesh  is  unedible,  which  no  doubt  accounts  for  its 
continued  existence  in  considerable  numbers.  It 
migrates  to  its  nesting-grounds  farther  north  in 
spring,  returning  late  in  October  or  November,  when 
the  immature  birds,  lacking  the  dark  greenish-black 
head  of  the  adult  male,  and  with  a  lighter  back, 
seem  to  predominate.  There  are  two  other  mer- 
gansers, the  red-breasted  and  the  hooded,  or  swamp 
sheldrake.  The  red-breasted  merganser  is  hardly 
seen  by  us  except  as  a  migrant,  en  route  north  or 
south,  but  the  hooded  variety — a  really  striking 
bird  is  the  male  duck,  with  his  wonderful  crest — is, 
or  at  least  was,  common  even  into  the  summer  on 
swampy  streams  and  shallow  ponds,  full  of  lily- 
pads  and  pickerel. 

Much  more  than  by  the  mergansers,  however, 
my  boyhood  memories  of  lily-padded  ponds  in  the 
woods  are  filled  by  the  hell-divers,  as  we  called 
them — the  pied-billed  grebes.  They  arrived  about 
the  ist  of  April,  and  in  those  days  used  to  remain  to 
breed,  making  their  nests  in  the  eel-grass  and  rushes, 
especially  the  cattails.  We  used  to  push  our  leaky 
old  flat-bottomed  boat  in  among  the  swampy  shal- 


io4  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

lows,  looking  for  these  nests,  which  sometimes  were 
hardly  more  than  rafts  of  sticks  floating  on  the 
water,  and  lightly  anchored  to  a  cat-stalk  or  two. 
But  the  chief  sport  was  to  shoot  at  them  from  shore 
with  an  old  muzzle-loading  shotgun,  not  so  much  'to 
kill  them,  for  I  cannot  recall  ever  being  sure  that  I 
even  hit  one,  but  to  see  them  dive.  It  was  popu- 
larly supposed  that  between  seeing  the  flash  of  the 
gun  and  the  arrival  of  the  shot  the  hell-diver  could 
completely  submerge,  and  great  was  the  quantity 
of  explosives  we  used  up  in  experiments.  My  pres- 
ent recollection  is  that  when  we  saw  the  little 
splashes  indicating  that  the  shot  had  hit  the  water 
the  bird  was  invariably  out  of  sight.  If  we  had  pos- 
sessed modern  high-power  rifles,  perhaps  the  results 
might  have  been  different,  had  our  aim  been  equal 
to  the  occasion.  At  any  rate,  the  pied -billed  grebe — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  a  comparatively  small  bird, 
only  twelve  to  fourteen  inches  long,  or  about  half  the 
length  of  an  American  merganser — is  a  marvelously 
expert  diver,  either  going  down  with  one  tilt  and 
kick  when  startled  or  submerging  slowly,  like  a  sub- 
marine, by  expelling  air  from  its  lungs  and  air- sacs. 
It  can,  and  does,  rise  for  air  simply  by  elevating  its 
bill  above  water,  beside  some  reed  or  amid  the  lily- 
pads,  so  that  the  eye  of  a  mere  man  cannot  detect 
it.  Here,  no  doubt,  is  the  explanation  of  all  the 
mysterious  "kills"  we  made  as  boys,  with  the  old 
shotgun,  and  of  the  fact  that  even  after  the  tradi- 
tional three  days  we  never  found  any  bodies  floating 
on  the  pond — only  a  fresh  flotilla  of  birds  swimming 
prettily  about  outside  the  rim  of  lily-pads.  So 
many  of  our  ponds  and  marshes  have  now  been 


BY    INLAND    WATERS 105 

drained  that  the  grebes,  at  least  in  the  nesting  sea- 
son, seem  to  me  far  fewer  than  they  used  to  be— 
which  is,  I  fancy,  a  fact  as  well  as  a  trick  of  memory. 
Probably  they  go  farther  north   to  breed.      The 


Wood-ducks  are  fewer  in  number    than  they  used  to  be 

grebe  species  is  widely  distributed  and  adaptable, 
being  found  all  the  way  from  Argentina  to  Hudson 
Bay. 

Neither  is  it  a  delusion  of  memory,  I  think,  that 
the  wood-ducks  are  far  fewer  in  number  than  they 
used  to  be,  like  most  other  water-fowl.  Gone  are 
those  wonderful  days  when  the  first  arrivals  at 
New  Amsterdam  found  the  swampy  harbor  shores 
a  paradise  of  ducks  and  geese  and  superb  whist- 


106  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

ling  swan.  The  wild  rice  still  grows  on  the  wide 
Newark  marshes,  but  clouds  of  coal  smoke,  not 
geese,  ascend  from  its  midst.  The  pretty  wood- 
duck,  one  of  the  duck  family  which  is  classified  as 
"river"  in  distinction  to  the  "sea"  or  "bay"  ducks, 
was 'formerly  a  common  summer  resident  of  north- 
eastern America,  and  was,  in  fact,  often  called  the 
summer-duck.  But  it  had  too  many  interesting 
characteristics — for  its  own  good.  In  the  first  place, 
it  could  be  eaten,  as  it  subsists  largely  on  vegetable 
seeds  and  insects.  In  the  second  place,  it  not  only 
nests  on  dry  land,  but,  unlike  all  other  ducks,  in  a 
tree,  a  hollow  tree.  Finally,  especially  in  the 
autumn  when  the  woods  are  full  of  acorns  and  other 
food,  it  flies  about  often  a  long  distance  from  water, 
quite  like  a  grouse,  and  makes  an  even  better  shot. 
Doctor  Eaton  reports  that  in  1902,  when  the  law 
prohibiting  spring  shooting  was  finally  passed,  the 
wood-duck  had  been  practically  exterminated  from 
western  New  York.  Since  that  date  it  is,  he  says, 
"holding  its  own"  in  that  region.  I  am  not  con- 
vinced that  it  is  even  holding  its  own  in  my  neigh- 
borhood, though  three  or  four  years  ago  a  mother 
duck  hatched  her  brood  somewhere  close  to  the 
Housatonic  River  in  the  Berkshires,  and  came  swim- 
ming along  one  day  close  to  the  golf-links  at  Stock- 
bridge,  with  six  little  brown  ducks  in  a  procession 
behind  her,  answering  her  tiller  as  if  they  had  all 
been  on  one  tow-rope.  It  was  such  a  pretty  sight 
that  we  stopped  our  game  to  watch.  The  wood- 
duck,  however,  not  only  requires  hollow  trees  to 
nest  in — and  a  tree  large  enough  to  hold  a  nest  for 
a  mother  eighteen  inches  long — but  it  requires  a 


BY    INLAND   WATERS 107 

quiet  sheet  of  water,  secluded  and  food-bearing. 
Settlements  are  destructive  both  of  large  rotten 
trees  and  secluded  waters.  The  wood  -  ducks  are 
probably  nesting  farther  north  these  days,  and  our 
chances  to  see  them  are  confined  largely  to  the 
migration  periods.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
are  easily  domesticated,  and  any  one  with  a  bit  of 
pond  or  swamp  in  old  woods  could  do  worse  than 
rear  a  few.  Whether  they  will  go  wild  again  I  do 
not  know.  Massachusetts  has  had  little  or  no  suc- 
cess in  trying  to  propagate  mallards  in  order  to 
restock  the  streams  and  ponds,  for  the  mallards 
refuse  to  hear  the  call  of  the  wild.  Not  long  ago, 
in  a  small  stream  behind  my  house,  I  saw  two  mal- 
lards swimming  along,  and  rushed,  in  great  excite- 
ment, to  tell  the  news.  To  my  chagrin,  I  found 
they  had  come  from  a  barn-yard  a  mile  away  and 
would  return  to  it  at  night.  They  did.  A  hunter 
would  hardly  have  been  more  tempted  to  shoot 
one  than  he  would  to  shoot  a  cow. 

The  so-called  black  duck  (so  called,  no  doubt, 
because  it  is  distinctly  brown)  is  still,  I  presume, 
the  duck  most  often  seen  on  inland  waters  or  even 
on  such  marshes  as  those  of  Long  Island.  It  winters 
on  Long  Island,  and  it  formerly  bred,  more  or  less, 
in  New  York  and  New  England,  but  now  seeks, 
like  other  birds  that  want  to  be  let  alone,  the  seclu- 
sion of  more  northern  waters.  It  is  a  smart  duck, 
hard  to  kill  and  wary  of  blinds,  and  its  dietary  ac- 
tivities are  extremely  beneficent.  I  was  always 
impressed  by  the  stomach  of  a  black  duck  Doctor 
Eaton  killed  near  Canandaigua  Lake,  New  York, 
out  of  a  flock  returning  from  a  flooded  corn-field. 


The  black  duck  is  the  duck  most  often  seen  on  inland  waters 


BY    INLAND    WATERS 109 

From  this  duck's  gullet  and  gizzard  he  took  a  few 
pebbles,  snail  shells,  a  little  chaff,  and  23,774  weed 
seeds — 13,240  pigweed  seeds,  7,264  knot  grass,  576 
dock,  and  2,624  ragweed.  As  ragweed  is  popularly 
supposed  to  be  the  worst  of  all  dangers  to  hay- 
fever  sufferers,  the  hay-fever  convention  should  cer- 
tainly sit  beneath  a  stuffed  black  duck,  even  as 
the  Great  and  General  Court  of  Massachusetts 
meets  beneath  a  golden  codfish !  It  is  not,  I  fancy, 
generally  realized  that  ducks  consume  so  many 
seeds — for  that  matter,  it  isn't  generally  realized 
how  large  a  part  all  beneficent  birds  play  in  holding 
the  destructive  exuberance  of  nature  in  check.  The 
terrible  and  disgusting  slaughter  of  our  wild  duck, 
especially  by  wealthy  Northern  hunters  in  the 
South  in  winter,  is  a  blot  on  our  national  good  sense. 
I  knew  of  three  New  York  men,  one  of  them  the 
owner  of  a  house-boat,  who  went  to  the  Carolinas 
two  winters  ago,  and  in  a  week  slaughtered  three 
hundred  ducks.  And  they  were  all  three  estimable 
citizens  and  kind  fathers,  and  could  see  no  reason 
why  they  shouldn't  be  proud  of  what  they  had  done. 
For  me,  I  can  only  hope  that  they  all  breathe  rag- 
weed pollen  and  snifffe  with  hay-fever  to  the  end  of 
their  days ! 

I  never  heard  of  anybody  trying  to  eat  a  great 
blue  heron,  nor,  in  the  parts  of  New  England  where 
I  have  lived  or  spent  my  summers,  have  I  ever  seen 
anybody  so  lost  to  beauty  and  kindliness  as  to 
shoot  one.  Yet  they,  too,  like  so  much  else  that  is 
wild  and  dependent  on  wilderness  conditions,  are 
growing  fewer.  This  great,  long-legged,  decora- 
tive bird,  with  its  suggestion  always  of  a  Japanese 


The  great  blue  heron  suggests  a 
Japanese  print 


print,  used  to  nest  in  considerable  I 

numbers  some  years  ago  in  some       \ 
scraggly-headed  jack-pines  which 
grew  along  the  shore  of  a  "salt 
pond"    in    old    South    County, 
Rhode   Island.      There   was   nothing    approaching 
the   great  heronries   of  the  swamps  by  the  cen- 
tral  lakes   of   New   York,  but   perhaps   a   dozen 
nests  could  be  seen  each  year,  sagging  platforms  of 
sticks  in  the  trees,  which,  by  the  way,  soon  died. 
Here  the  herons  raised  their  families,  and  their -f ami- 


BY    INLAND    WATERS  in 

lies  raised  a  racket  which  you  could  hear  a  consid- 
erable way  off,  over  the  water.  The  pond  was 
shallow  and  full  of  aquatic  life,  so  that  the  parents 
never  had  to  range  far  for  food.  I  presume  they 
took  a  great  quantity  of  small  crabs,  which  other- 
wise would  have  lived  and  grown  to  grace  our  own 
tables,  but  it  was  a  small  price  to  pay  for  the  sight 
of  the  stately,  Japanese-like  birds  settling  into  the 
tortured,  Japanese-like  trees,  or  standing  on  one 
foot  in  the  shallows  at  twilight,  waiting  to  spear  a 
fish  or  crab  with  that  long,  powerful  bill.  The  site 
of  this  little  heronry  is  now  occupied  by  a  boat- 
house,  from  which  a  path  leads  up  to  a  summer  cot- 
tage on  the  bank.  The  herons  are  no  more.  The 
sound  of  the  gramaphone  floats  out  over  the  water 
now,  instead  of  the  squawking  of  the  little  herons, 
impatient  for  their  dinner.  Somehow  I  preferred 
the  herons,  even  to  a  "  record "  by  Caruso. 

But  they  have  by  no  means  all  disappeared  from 
our  inland  waters,  especially  in  the  autumn  migra- 
tion season,  and  on  my  last  trip  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains I  found  them  still  breeding  there,  along  the 
little  Ham  Branch.  I  have  seen  one  caught,  too, 
in  midsummer,  in  the  Berkshires,  by  a  small  boy. 
The  bird  had  an  injured  leg,  so  that  it  could  not  run 
fast  enough  to  take  the  air,  or  so  it  seemed,  for  its 
frantic  beating  of  wings  and  its  lopsided,  limping 
run  availed  it  nothing.  The  boy  grabbed  it  in  his 
arms,  and  held  the  neck  with  difficulty,  to  prevent 
being  struck  in  the  face  by  the  angry  bill,  and  after 
a  prolonged  struggle  got  the  heron  home  to  the  hen- 
yard,  where  he  placed  it  for  the  night,  behind  a 
seven-foot  wire.  The  heron,  however,  recovered 


ii2 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

sufficient  powers  of  locomotion  to  take  the  air  that 
night.  In  the  morning  he  was  gone.  A  slight  limp 
in  blue  herons  seems  to  be  not  uncommon,  due  to 
the  fact,  it  is  said,  that  one  leg  is  frequently  shorter 
than  the  other,  from  the  habit  of  using  but  one  to 
stand  on.  You  sometimes  hear  people  pity  a  "poor, 
lame  heron"  that  is  probably  quite  unconscious  of 
any  need  for  pity.  They  used  to  pity  the  mother 
who  limped  out  with  her  one  long-legged  offspring 
from  the  fringe  of  woods  along  the  Ham  Branch 
at  twilight,  seeking,  perhaps,  some  sort  of  food  in 
the  meadow,  though  it  had  all  the  appearance  of 
an  evening  stroll.  However,  when  anybody  at- 
tempted to  walk  down  across  the  meadow  and  get 
near  the  couple,  the  "poor,  lame  thing"  displayed 
an  agility  that  was  remarkable,  and  so  did  the 
offspring.  Familiarity  was  permitted  to  breed  no 
contempt  for  that  old  bird!  She  was  quite  willing 
to  be  a  decorative  touch  to  the  lovely  intervale 
landscape,  from  afar;  but  she  had  no  intention  of 
allowing  what  the  motion  pictures  describe  as  a 
"close-up." 

It  has  never  occurred  to  me  to  think  of  the  little 
green  heron  as  decorative.  Yet  I  suppose  he  is, 
especially  when  he  is  wading  on  some  mud-bar  in  a 
swale  that  makes  in  from  the  river,  or  sits  on  an 
old  log  in  the  swamp,  from  a  little  distance  scarcely 
appearing  green  at  all,  but  rather  bluish,  so  far  as 
there  is  any  obvious  coloration  to  its  dusky  hue. 
The  reason  the  little  green  heron  doesn't  seem 
decorative  to  me  goes  back  a  long  way,  to  my  boy- 
hood, to  the  popular  names  attached  to  this  bird 
because  of  certain  of  its  habits.  It  was  then,  and 


The  little  green  heron  has  shown  a  sturdy  ability  to  look  after 

himself 


BY    INLAND    WATERS  113 

still  is,  a  common  summer  inhabitant  of  our  swampy 
ponds  and  river  swales,  as  well  as  of  larger  lakes  and 
clearer  streams.  It  is  a  diurnal  bird,  and  conse- 
quently much  more  often  observed  than  almost 
any  of  its  fellows,  frequently  rising  from  the  rushes 
or  the  bank  ahead  of  a  canoe,  and  qua-qua-ing  loudly 
as  it  flies  off  not  far  above  the  water.  In  fact,  one 
of  its  popular  names  is  "fly-up-the-creek,"  doubt- 
less from  this  habit  of  keeping  to  the  water  path  as 
it  moves  away.  It  lives  chiefly  on  frogs,  minnows, 
crayfish,  and  such  other  small  fry  as  it  can  extract 
from  the  water,  and  builds  its  nest,  a  rough  and 
slovenly  affair  of  sticks,  quite  characteristic  of  its 
own  lack  of  daintiness,  low  down  in  some  willow  or 
other  tree  by  the  edge  of  the  pond  or  stream.  I 
remember  finding  such  a  nest  once  when  a  small 
boy,  and  thinking  with  disgust  that  I  had  never 
seen  anything  more  ugly  than  the  scrawny,  pin- 
feathered,  long  necks  and  tremendous  open  mouths 
of  the  little  herons.  But  not  all  baby  birds  can  be 
chickens  or  young  ruffed  grouse,  and  as  the  wild 
life  both  of  our  woods  and  streams  has  grown  less 
and  less  as  the  years  have  gone  on,  I  have  learned 
to  appreciate  more  what  is  left,  particularly  those 
humbler  species,  like  the  little  green  heron,  which 
have  shown  a  sturdy  ability  to  look  after  them- 
selves, and  what  appears  almost  like  a  determina- 
tion to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  situation — man  and 
his  works  being  the  bad  situation,  of  course — and 
go  about  their  business  as  usual. 

A  larger  and  rather  more  interesting  bird  of  the 
marshy  waters  is  the  bittern,  or,  as  many  folks  call 
it,  the  stake-driver — not  because  it  drives  stakes, 


ii4  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

but  because  from  a  considerable  distance  its  love- 
call  seems  to  be  a  single  note,  bearing  a  rather  fan- 
ciful resemblance  to  the  blow  on  a  stake  which  is 
being  driven  into  mud.  The  booming  of  the  bit- 
tern is  still  a  not  uncommon  sound  by  our  Northern 
waters,  from  April  well  into  June,  yet  it  is  surprising 
how  few  people  are  familiar  with  it — or  it  would  be 
surprising  if  one  did  not  know  that  more  men  and 
women  are  insensitive  to  the  various  sounds  of 
nature  than  are  listening  and  discriminative.  If 
you  chance  to  be  near  a  bittern  when  he  booms,  you 
will  hear  a  loud,  three-syllabled  call,  something  as 
if  a  big  bullfrog  were  trying  to  say  pump-er-loom, 
several  times  repeated.  Doctor  Eaton  gives  the 
syllables  as  pump-er-lunk,  and  some  declare  the 
bittern  says  plum-pudd'n;  but  doubtless  it  is  im- 
possible to  put  the  curious,  explosive,  croaking 
boom  into  words.  Even  odder  than  the  sound  is 
the  method  of  production,  if  you  are  fortunate 
enough  to  catch  sight  of  the  singer — not  always  an 
easy  thing  to  do,  for,  though  the  bittern  is  a  large 
bird,  from  two  feet  to  over  thirty  inches  long,  it  is 
a  mottled  and  speckled  brown,  with  a  black  streak 
on  either  side  of  the  neck,  and  otherwise  so  pro- 
tectively colored  that  it  can  stand  still  amid  the 
reeds  and  grasses  by  a  water-side,  especially  at  twi- 
light, and  escape  all  but  the  sharpest  eyes.  It 
emits  its  call  by  tilting  its  head  upward  and  fairly 
regurgitating  the  sound,  with  spasmodic  contrac- 
tions of  the  throat,  as  if  its  love-song  were  a  pellet. 
Like  the  famous  titwillow,  one  suspects  it  of  indi- 
gestion rather  than  lovesickness.  When  a  bittern 
is  startled  into  flight,  it  rises  with  a  hoarse  croak 


BY    INLAND    WATERS  115 

and  begins  to  fly  as  if  in  great  terror,  with  its  long 
legs  dangling  comically.  Not  till  it  is  some  dis- 
tance away  does  it  get  into  the  calm,  measured, 
wing-beat  of  its  true  locomotion.  We  boys  used 
to  flush  bitterns  for  the  sheer  joy  of  seeing  their 
legs  dangle,  as  we  supposed,  though  I  am  not  sure 
but  we  enjoyed  also  the  later,  splendid  flight;  cer- 
tainly, in  my  memory,  it  is  the  picture  of  the  re- 
ceding bird  which  comes  back  to  me,  its  wings 
rising  and  falling  with  rhythmic  pulse  against  the 
solemn  wall  of  pines  which  stood  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  Hundred  Acre  meadows,  or  against  a 
quiet  sunset  sky  over  the  glassy  waters  of  Martin's 
pond.  Unfortunately,  here  in  the  Berkshires,  the 
bitterns  seem  never  to  have  been  common,  and 
now  at  best  we  but  see  them  at  migration  time. 
Occasionally  one  is  said  to  nest  here,  but  I  have 
never  encountered  a  case.  They  nest  in  great  num- 
bers in  southern  Rhode  Island. 

Every  country  boy  knows  the  spotted  sandpiper, 
which  lie  probably  calls  a  " tip-up,"  or  "teeter- 
tail."  I  can  remember  when  this  delightfully  odd 
and  beneficent  little  bird  was  considered  a  "game- 
bird"  and  ruthlessly  shot.  Perhaps  some  people 
still  so  regard  it,  though  it  seems  incredible  in  light 
of  what  we  now  know  concerning  the  usefulness  to 
man  of  the  insect-eating  birds.  Even  the  quail 
can  probably  save  far  more  food  by  protecting  the 
farmer's  crop  than  his  little  body  can  supply  on  a 
table.  The  spotted  sandpiper  is  the  commonest 
of  his  species  in  the  northeastern  United  States, 
and  as  he  nimbly  bobs  along  on  the  little  sand  mar- 
gin of  a  stream  or  pond,  tipping  his  tail  restlessly  up 


Every  country  boy  knows  the  spotted  sandpiper 

and  down,  he  is  quaintly  like  a  spry  old  beau  on 
parade,  doffing  his  hat  to  every  passing  lady.  In 
the  mating  season,  in  early  May,  most  country  boys, 
especially  those  who  live  near  water,  have  seen  the 
male  bird  strut  cockily  in  front  of  the  female,  puff- 
ing out  his  chest,  or  have  beheld  him  soar  abruptly 
several  feet  into  the  air,  as  if  he  had  a  sudden  im- 


BY   INLAND   WATERS  117 

pulse  to  be  a  skylark,  and  emit  the  shrill,  pretty 
pipe  of  his  species.  We  boys  used  to  see  them 
sometimes  a  long  way  from  water,  in  the  corn-fields 
or  the  mowing,  though  it  did  not  occur  to  us  then, 
nor  to  our  parents,  that  they  were  beneficently 
engaged  on  a  search  for  insects.  The  little  sand- 
pipers, almost  as  soon  as  they  are  hatched,  begin  to 
run  and  teeter  their  tails,  like  their  parents,  regular 
little  replicas  of  the  old  folks. 

Once  upon  a  time,  like  every  other  normal  boy,  I 
determined  to  collect  birds'  eggs.  This  juvenile  in- 
stinct has,  of  course,  been  the  cause  of  untold  de- 
struction to  bird  life,  and  should  never  be  per- 
mitted indulgence  except  under  careful  supervision. 
But  in  my  case  I  met  with  an  early,  severe,  and  dis- 
couraging setback.  I  attempted  to  secure  the  eggs 
of  a  belted  kingfisher.  Perhaps  I  might  have  done 
so  if  I  had  made  the  attempt  slightly  earlier,  but  I 
unfortunately  waited  till  early  in  June,  as  I  recall 
it — at  any  rate,  till  after  the  eggs  were  hatched. 
Just  why  I  procrastinated  I  do  not  now  recall,  un- 
less it  was  because  I  have  always  found  procrasti- 
nation easy.  But  wait  I  did.  The  nest  was  dis- 
covered by  another  boy  and  myself  in  a  bank  of 
red  sugar  gravel  so  far  from  a  pond  that  we  couldn't 
believe  at  first  the  kingfishers  were  making  it, 
though  we  several  times  saw  them  go  in  and  out. 
Not  being  endowed  with  the  patience  of  naturalists, 
we  did  not  sit  by  to  watch  them  work,  and  did 
not  then  know  that  it  takes  them  two  weeks  to  ex- 
cavate their  tunnel,  or  that  it  is  often  as  much  as 
eight  feet  from  the  entrance  to  the  nest.  Not 
knowing  this  fact,  nor  the  date  of  incubation,  I  set 


n8  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

cheerfully  to  work  one  day  with  a  spade,  attacking 
the  sod  above  the  bank,  for  the  hole  started  hardly 
two  feet  below  the  top,  and  somebody  had  told  me 
the  tunnel  always  ran  uphill  from  the  mouth,  no 
doubt  for  drainage.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  as 
I  dug  backward  from  the  entrance,  the  soil  falling 
down  into  the  exposed  shaft,  I  was  constantly 
blocking  up  the  passage  and  effectively  imprisoning 
the  mother  bird,  if  she  chanced  to  be  in  there. 
After  about  a  foot  or  two  I  began  to  look  for  the 
nest,  but  no  nest  appeared.  I  toiled  on  till  I  must 
have  exposed  a  trench  five  feet  long.  By  that  time 
I  decided  I  must  surely  be  close  to  the  end,  so  I 
stooped  down  and  carefully  poked  away  the  gravel 
and  fallen  loam  from  the  tunnel  and  ran  my  little 
hand  up  it.  A  second  later  the  gravel -bank  re- 
sounded to  a  wild  yell  of  pain  as  I  withdrew  a  torn 
and  bleeding  finger.  Mother  kingfisher  was  un- 
doubtedly on  the  job!  By  now  I  was  mad,  and, 
seizing  my  spade,  I  dug  recklessly  to  expose  her.  A 
moment  later  and  she  flew  up  and  out  with  an 
angry  cry,  and  began  to  circle  around  overhead, 
while  in  a  slight  chamber,  into  which  the  tunnel 
enlarged  at  the  end,  amid  a  heaven-smelling  mess  of 
disgorged  pellets  composed  of  fish-bones,  scales,  and 
the  like,  and  half  covered  with  earth  dislodged  by 
my  spade,  were  three  baby  birds,  ugly,  blinded  by 
the  sudden  light,  half  dead  with  the  collapse  of  their 
roof.  I  forgot  my  injured  finger,  and  was  suddenly 
overcome  by  a  tremendous  pity,  a  wave  of  penitence. 
I  think  I  cried,  for  even  as  I  watched  and  tried  to 
scoop  the  fallen  dirt  away  one  of  the  chicks  lay  over 
on  its  side,  apparently  dead.  I  left  them  and  the 


BY    INLAND    WATERS 


119 


distracted  mother,  and  never  had  the  courage  to  go 
back  to  see  if  they  all  died.     I  felt  too  sure  they 


The  kingfisher  is  extremely  decorative  as  he  perches 
high  over  pond  or  river 

did.     It  was  the  first  and  the  last  kingfisher's  nest 
I  ever  attempted  to  excavate. 

Yet  the  people  who  stock  their  streams  with 


i2o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

fingerling  trout  have  no  love  for  this  big,  handsome, 
energetic,  and  sometimes  warrior-like  bird.  He  is 
extremely  decorative  as  he  perches  on  a  limb  high 
over  pond  or  river,  watching  for  the  gleam  of  fish 
below  to  fall  upon;  but  he  is  also  extremely  efficient 
in  getting  the  fish  when  he  sees  it.  Still  we  could  ill 
spare  the  sight  of  him  from  our  inland  waterways, 
and  any  close  observation  of  a  pair  ot  kingfishers 
through  the  season  impresses  you  with  their  sturdy, 
if  sometimes  contentious,  independence.  More  than 
once,  along  the  winding  Housatonic,  I  have  noticed 
that  these  birds  apparently  divide  up  the  river  into 
definite  reaches,  each  pair  of  birds  taking  a  reach, 
and  thereafter  maintaining  it  strictly  to  them- 
selves and  driving  off  with  a  great  show  of  anger 
and  storming  of  wings  and  striking  of  heavy  bill 
any  other  kingfisher  which  comes  fishing  on  their 
posted  sections.  I  have  reason  to  think,  too,  that 
they  return  in  successive  summers  to  the  same 
fishing-ground,  for  I  have  seen  a  fine  old  male  for 
at  least  three  summers  frequent  the  same  tree,  over- 
hanging a  shallow  back-water  just  above  the  spot 
where  a  trout-brook  enters  the  river. 

There  is  a  special  lure,  like  that  of  nothing  else, 
about  the  shallow  margin  of  a  pond,  where  the 
shadowed  woods  come  down  to  throw  their  reflec- 
tions over  the  still,  dark  water,  reflections  broken 
by  lily-pads  and  rushes,  where  pickerel- weed  grows, 
and  water-lilies,  and  white  arrowhead;  or  about  the 
sandy  margin  of  clean  water  lapping  in,  tiny  wave 
on  wave;  or  about  a  quiet  river  wandering  between 
banks  of  clematis  and  balsam  apple,  dogwood,  and 
jewel- weed,  and  under  groined  green  arches  of 


BY    INLAND   WATERS  121 

drooping  willows,  bending  as  the  earth  waves 
deflect  it  into  the  mystery  of  the  concealed  land- 
scape. No  small  part  of  such  charm,  surely,  is  in 
the  bird  and  animal  life,  the  snapper  plopping  from 
a  log,  the  darting  wraith  of  a  pickerel  in  the  weeds, 
the  bittern's  boom,  the  spotted  sandpipers  tipping 
a  salute  as  they  show  off  their  speckled  shirt-fronts 
on  the  little  beach,  the  waiting  kingfisher  overhead, 
the  heron  sailing  with  slow  wing-beats  down  the 
river  aisle.  When  we  lose  them  how  much  is  lost ! 
To  save  them,  or  what  few  of  them  we  can  save,  is 
worth  all  it  has  cost,  and  will  cost,  for  increasingly 
as  the  days  go  on  man  will  need  to  turn  from  his 
own  perplexities  to  the  solace  of  the  natural  world, 
in  all  its  fullness  and  all  its  multiple  beauty. 


POKING  AROUND   FOR  BIRDS'  NESTS 

BIRDNESTING!  What  memories  that  evokes 
in  almost  every  man  who  knew  a  country 
boyhood!  The  predatory  instincts  of  a  boy 
when  a  bird's  nest  is  concerned  is  often,  if  not  gen- 
erally, regarded  as  a  species  of  cruelty,  a  manifes- 
tation of  original  sin,  as  it  were.  Yet,  as  I  look 
back  upon  my  boyhood,  I  cannot  feel  that  this  belief 
is  justified.  There  was  certainly  as  much  rudi- 
mentary scientific  curiosity  and  unconscious  self- 
development  through  the  training  of  the  faculties 
of  observation  as  there  was  cruelty  in  our  search 
for  birds'  nests.  To  be  sure,  the  finding  of  the  nest 
and  the  eggs  was  rather  an  end  in  itself;  we  lacked 
the  modern  psychologist's  interest  in  watching  the 
parents'  behavior  and  the  young  birds'  growth. 
There  may  even  have  been  a  low  spirit  of  emu  la- 


POKING  AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    123 

tion  between  boy  and  boy  to  see  who  could  gather 
the  greatest  variety.  But  surely  that  cabinet,*  or 
old  secretary  top,  which  you  and  I  and  every  real 
American  boy  of  a  generation  ago  had  in  his 
chamber,  full  of  mineral  specimens,  and  birds'  nests 
on  their  twigs,  with  the  eggs  inside,  and  tiny  boxes 
of  rough  garnets  carefully  picked  up  on  our  expe- 
ditions and  treasured  in  the  belief  that  they  were  of 
immense  value,  and  perhaps  a  stuffed  owl,  and  a  tin 
box  of  plant  specimens,  and  surely  an  emperor 
moth  mounted  on  a  card,  and  in  the  drawer  below 
the  precious  stamp  album — surely  this  old  secretary 
did  not  bespeak  our  cruelty,  but  our  curiosity.  I 
am  very  sure  I  should  hate  to  give  up  the  memory 
of  my  collection.  In  fact,  I  have  not  even  given  up 
all  of  the  collection.  Gathering  dust  over  one  of 
my  bookcases  is  a  cat-bird's  nest,  on  my  desk  as  I 
write  lies  a  little  wooden  box  of  garnets  picked  up 
on  Mount  Monadnock,  and  until  recently  my 
precious  lumps  of  gold  and  silver  quartz  lay  on  a 
shelf.  Alas!  one  evil  day  my  wife  took  them  all 
to  make  a  rim  around  the  garden  pool,  and  used  the 
shelf  for  the  complete  works  of  Rudyard  Kipling. 
Yet  women  complain  that  men  have  no  sentiment! 
Still,  I  have  to  admit  that  any  but  a  scientific 
museum  collection  of  birds'  eggs  does  represent  a 
loss  of  bird  life  far  greater  than  the  gain  to  the  col- 
lector. There  are  plenty  of  books  with  colored 
plates  which  will  answer  the  purpose,  too.  The 
ideal  spirit  to  inculcate  in  the  boy  (and  the  training 
cannot  begin  too  early !)  is  a  love  of  birds  and  a  pro- 
found respect  for  their  economic  value,  and  with 
that  a  spirit  of  vital  curiosity  to  see  how  they  build 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


their  nests  and  rear  their  families.  This  will  em- 
ploy all  the  detective  faculties  of  birdnesting  to  the 
full,  without  imperiling  the  next  generation  of  birds. 
Heaven  knows,  the  birds'  worst  enemy  is  man! 
Nor  need  the  fascinating  sport  of  birdnesting,  thus 
practised,  cease  with  boyhood.  Indeed,  it  can 
never  be  fully  relished  until  mature  years,  when  the 
wonders  of  the  paternal  and  the  protective  instincts 
can  rightly  be  felt.  To  combine  with  birdnesting 
a  curiosity  about  bird  habits  and  psychology,  and 
to  combine  with  both  a  relish  for  the  charms  of 
landscape  and  field  and  woodland  in  which  the  birds 
find  their  natural  environment,  is  one  of  the  pe- 
culiar and  keenest  delights  of  the  naturalist  —  the 
quite  amateur  naturalist,  it  may  well  be,  as  much 
as  the  professional  expert.  On  the  purely  scientific 
side,  for  instance,  there  is  much  yet  to  be  learned 
about  the  breeding  habits  of  birds,  and  the  data 
of  amateurs,  if  they  are  carefully  observed,  will 
always  be  of  positive  as  well  as  personal  value. 

I  have  no  intention  here,  even  had  I  the  ability, 
of  writing  a  detailed  description  of  the  nests  and 
breeding  habits  of  our  New  England  birds.  That 
has  been  done  by  the  competent  ornithologists, 
with  one  of  whose  books  the  amateur  hunter  should 
make  himself  familiar.  But  what  the  ornitholo- 
gists have  not  done  —  except,  of  course,  Thoreau, 
in  his  voluminous  notes  —  is  to  connect  the  various 
birds  with  the  natural  environment  they  choose 
for  a  breeding-place,  for  a  home,  let  us  say,  so  that 
the  marsh  or  the  orchard  takes  on  an  added  charm 
from  its  inhabitants,  and  they  from  it.  It  may  not 
be  out  of  place,  then,  for  even  an  amateur  natural- 


POKING   AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS     125 

ist,  whose  observations  are  random  and  unclassified 
—who,  indeed,  is  less  of  a  naturalist  than  an  idle 
lover  of  nature — to  say  a  few  words  in  description 
and  praise  of  the  fascinating  pastime  of  birdnesting, 
with  a  note-book,  as  it  were,  instead  of  a  box  of 
cotton. 

In  the  town  where  I  recently  lived,  in  western 
Massachusetts,  William  Brewster,  the  ornithologist, 
during  several  summer  visits,  noted  ninety-one  vari- 
eties of  birds,  all  but  eleven  of  which  conceivably 
might,  and  probably  did,  nest  there.  Ralph  Hoff- 
mann, in  a  more  detailed  study,  has  noted  in  that 
single  township,  during  the  entire  year,  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  varieties,  nine  resident  for  all  twelve 
months,  ten  winter  visitants,  thirty-five  migrants, 
and  ninety-six  summer  residents.  That  would 
make  a  total  of  one  hundred  and  five  possible  varie- 
ties of  nests  for  the  hunter  to  find — no  mean  quarry 
—and  few  enough  are  the  people  who  could  say 
they  have  seen  them  all,  though  not  as  few,  per- 
haps, as  the  people  who  could  identify  each  of  the 
hundred  and  five  if  they  did  find  them!  But  no 
one  need  be  discouraged  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
task,  because  the  essence  of  amateur  birdnesting 
is  not  to  achieve  a  card-catalogue  knowledge,  but 
is  rather  a  lazy,  humorously  human  enjoyment  of 
what  may  chance  on  a  May  or  June  afternoon, 
when  the  bobolinks  sing  in  the  meadows,  or  the 
busy  wrens  go  chattering  about  their  house-building 
in  the  garden  bird-box,  or  the  mother  partridge  in 
the  woods  seeks  by  every  artful  device  to  lure  you 
from  your  quest. 

To  me,  the  birds*  nests  are  not  scientifically  di- 


126  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

vided  by  their  architectural  structure,  but  rather 
by  their  environment,  and  with  each  environment 
I  love  to  associate  the  feathered  inhabitants. 
Rather  a  rough  classification,  perhaps,  but  to  the 
beginning  birdnester  it  is  the  most  useful  one,  in 
many  ways,  as  well  as  the  one  yielding  the  largest 
reward  of  general  enjoyment. 

First,  of  course,  we  must  begin  with  our  dwell- 
ings as  an  environment,  including  the  barns  and 
outbuildings.  There  are  certain  birds  prone  to  nest 
in,  on,  or  about  them,  friendly  birds  who  can  become 
our  companions  and  often  (like  the  swallows)  our 
best  friends.  Then  there  are  birds  of  the  orchard, 
which  may  include  other  trees  about  our  dwellings. 
These  birds,  too,  are  our  familiars,  and  nowadays, 
it  is  pleasant  to  record,  more  and  more  the  objects  of 
our  protection  and  care.  Then  there  are  birds  of  the 
meadows,  birds  of  the  swamp,  birds  of  the  pasture 
(the  upland  pastures,  the  cleared  areas,  the  berry- 
patches),  and  birds  of  the  deep  woods.  There  are, 
too,  birds  of  the  river-banks — the  kingfisher, .  for 
instance.  Can  any  one  think  of  the  kingfisher  apart 
from  his  stream?  Finally,  there  are  certain  birds 
the  tramper,  at  any  rate,  associates  peculiarly  with 
the  roadside — the  country  roadside  with  its  old 
stone  walls,  its  rail  fences,  its  brier  tangles  and  tree 
hedges.  Perhaps  the  last  classification  is  an  arbi- 
trary one,  but  let  it  stand.  The  old-fashioned 
roadside  garden,  before  the  dust  of  motors  and  the 
invasion  of  tarvia  and  brush  scythes,  was  a  delect- 
able world  of  color  and  odor  and  bird  and  butterfly 
life.  Its  brilliant  indigo  birds,  its  gay  goldfinches, 
its  melodious  song- sparrows,  its  protesting  cat-birds, 


Houses  and  barns  attract  the  wrens  and  swallows 


128  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

who  chose  it  as  their  home,  still  know  where  such 
gardens  grow  in  the  back  country,  and  there  they 
still  nest. 

Among  the  birds  to  look  for  as  residents  of  the 
house,  barn,  or  outbuildings  are  the  house  wren, 
the  purple  martin,  the  barn,  chimney,  and  cliff 
swallows,  the  phcebe,  the  robin,  and  the  chipping- 
sparrow.  All  of  this  group  are  probably  familiar 
to  the  average  person.  The  busy  and  domestic 
little  wrens  seldom  build  far  from  a  dwelling.  They 
will  perch  their  nests  almost  anywhere — on  a  pro- 
tected beam,  behind  a  blind,  under  an  eave;  but 
if  you  will  provide  nesting-boxes  for  them,  placed 
on  trees  or  trellis  close  to  the  house — any  of  the 
standard  boxes  with  the  entrance  hole  the  size  of  a 
silver  quarter — they  will  select  these  houses  in 
preference.  For  two  years  a  pair  of  wrens  built 
on  a  beam  on  our  back  porch,  but  after  we  had 
placed  a  box  for  them  on  a  grape-trellis  some  thirty 
feet  away  they  deserted  the  porch  for  this  new 
dwelling,  abandoning  a  half -built  nest.  They  filled 
the  box  nearly  full  of  twigs,  and  then  lined  the  nest 
with  soft  material,  including  cotton  batting,  which 
we  put  on  the  ground  near  by.  After  the  eggs  were 
laid  the  mother  wren  stuck  to  her  job  steadily  and 
silently  while  her  mate  fed  her.  He  was  not  silent, 
however,  but  kept  up  an  almost  incessant  sweet 
little  chatter,  hopping  along  the  trellis  close  to  the 
nest  after  he  had  passed  in  a  bug  to  his  wife,  and 
singing  his  tuneless  song  over  and  over.  When 
the  little  birds  hatched  they  filled  the  tiny  box 
almost  to  bursting.  You  wondered  how  the  mother 
could  get  in  and  out.  One  day  we  heard  a  great 


POKING   AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS     129 

commotion.  Both  parents  and  all  five  children 
were  making  a  tremendous  uproar  (relative  to 
their  size,  that  is).  We  ran  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  found  that  the  wind  had  blown  a  branch 
from  a  near-by  tree  down  across  the  entrance  to  the 
nest,  where  it  had  stuck.  The  parents  almost 
hopped  on  our  shoulders  as  we  removed  the  obstruc- 
tion, and  the  mother  was  up  to  the  hole  to  see  her 
babies  before  we  were  well  away  from  the  nest. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  in  our  new  home,  only 
fifteen  miles  away,  but  out  in  the  country  instead 
of  on  a  village  street,  we  have  not  yet  so  much  as 
seen  a  wren.  Whether  this  means  that  the  wrens 
not  only  prefer  houses,  but  houses  in  villages,  or 
whether  it  means  they  are  locally  distributed  in 
Berkshire,  I  have  not  yet  enough  data  to  say. 

All  farmers'  boys,  of  course,  know  the  nests  of 
the  barn  and  cliff  swallows — the  latter  built  in 
colonies  under  the  eaves,  curious  affairs,  like  retorts, 
with  the  neck  sloping  slightly  downward.  Most 
farmers,  too,  recognize  the  enormous  value  of 
swallows  as  insect  -  destroyers,  and  I  fancy  it  is 
pretty  generally  a  punishable  offense  to  molest  a 
swallow's  nest.  In  my  boyhood,  as  I  recall,  there 
was  even  some  superstition  attached  to  the  barn- 
swallows.  They  brought  good  luck,  and  if  you 
destroyed  their  nests  evil  would  follow.  Like  so 
many  superstitions,  this  one  certainly  had  an 
element  of  substantial  fact.  The  chimney-swifts 
were  less  desirable,  because  in  the  autumn  their 
nests  often  made  the  chimney  smoke  and  had  to 
be  fished  out  or  knocked  down  by  lowering  a  pine 
branch  on  a  rope  from  the  roof.  Once  upon  a  time, 


i3o.  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

of  course,  these  swallows  built  in  hollow  trees.  But 
a  pair  of  them,  flying  over  Plymouth  in  1621,  spied 
something  which  looked  like  a  new  kind  of  tree, 
and  the  breed  was  on  its  way  to  a  new  procedure. 

Perhaps  the  fact  that  chimneys  are  safer  from, 
squirrels,  ' coons,  owls,  and  other  possible  enemies 
was  a  factor  in  determining  the  change.  Then,  too, 
it  is  undoubtedly  easier  to  find  chimneys  to-day 
than  hollow  trees.  I  well  remember,  as  a  boy, 
hearing  a  noise  in  one  of  our  chimneys  and  pulling 
out  the  stovepipe-hole  cap  in  my  chamber.  There, 
directly  opposite  the  opening,  perched  on  a  pro- 
truding brick,  a  swift  was  building  a  nest  of  sticks! 
I  watched  the  whole  process,  fascinated  by  the 
sticky  mucilage  which  the  bird  secreted  in  her 
salivary  glands  to  fasten  the  sticks  together,  and, 
after  the  mother  was  sitting,  gradually  got  her  so 
tame — or,  rather,  sufficiently  subdued  her  wildness 
—that  she  would  remain  occasionally  on  the  nest 
when  the  cap  was  removed.  My  great  desire  was  to 
see  how  she  got  the  young  birds  up  the  chimney 
after  they  were  large  enough  to  leave  the  nest,  but, 
alas!  that  feat  was  accomplished  one  day  when  I 
wasn't  looking.  I  felt  certain  then  that  she  must 
have  carried  them  up  in  her  bill,  though  I  was 
laughed  at  for  my  belief.  Curiously  enough,  I 
have  never  had  another  chance,  myself,  to  watch. 
Those  who  have  say  the  young  birds  hop  and 
climb  with  their  toes,  following  the  mother. 

The  robin,  the  phoebe,  and  the  chipping- sparrow 
are  all  birds  who  will  often  nest  on  our  houses,  but 
also  often  nest  elsewhere.  The  tame  and  pretty 
phoebes  frequently  raise  two  broods,  and  build  their 


POKING   AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS     131 

second  nest  on  top  of  the  ruins  of  their  first.  One 
year  a  pair  built  a  nest  on  a  beam  on  our  dining- 
porch,  so  early  in  the  season  that  we  had  not  yet 
begun  to  eat  outside.  In  midsummer,  when  it 
came  time  to  rear  their  second  brood,  they  tore  the 
old  nest  down,  letting  the  rubbish  of  moss,  lichen, 
and  hair  fall  directly  on  the  table,  and  started 
building  anew!  We  had  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading them  to  go  away  from  there.  For  three 
successive  years,  too,  a  robin  nested  on  our  front 
porch,  each  year  building  a  new  nest  on  the  grape- 
vine under  the  eaves,  two  or  three  feet  from  the  site 
of  the  old  one.  I  say  a  robin  because  in  all  the 
three  years  we  were  unable  to  detect  the  father. 
It  was  the  most  mysterious  menage,  suggesting  the 
thought  to  our  maid,  Katie,  that  the  "  father  was 
probably  a  traveling-man."  The  mother,  however, 
either  was  fed  by  faith  or  got  enough  to  eat  while 
off  the  nest,  for  she  reared  her  three  broods.  She 
was  exceedingly  tame  and  would  permit  us  to  stand 
on  a  chair  with  our  faces  level  with  hers,  not  two  feet 
away,  and  look  us  calmly  in  the  eye.  The  fourth 
year  she  did  not  come  back. 

The  chipping-sparrows,  with  their  pretty,  pert, 
minute  little  bodies,  tame  ways,  and  silvery  tinkle 
of  sound,  hide  their  nests  very  cleverly,  but  they 
don't  mind  hiding  them  on  a  vine  which  grows 
beside  a  house.  In  one  summer  in  our  yard  we 
found  three  chipping-sparrows'  nests.  One  was  so 
cleverly  concealed  about  four  feet  from  the  ground 
in  the  thicket  of  a  young  cedar-tree  that  it  wasn't 
discovered  till  long  after  the  birds  were  gone,  and 
then  only  because  a  high  wind  blew  the  branches 


132  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

open.  A  second  was  hidden  in  a  clematis- vine  on 
a  trellis.  The  third  was  about  seven  feet  up  in  a 
richly  tangled  Virginia  creeper  on  the  east  side  of 
my  summer-house  in  the  garden,  where  I  wrote. 
The  summer-house  is  pierced  with  arches,  and  from 
my  table  I  could  look  through  an  arch  directly  to 
the  spot  where  the  nest  was.  But  the  nest  itself 
was  invisible.  The  birds  did  not  mind  me  in  the 
least,  but  would  come  and  go  quite  fearlessly.  It 
was  very  pretty,  after  the  infinitesimal  young  were 
hatched,  to  hear  their  tiny  squeals  in  under  the 
leaves,  and  to  see  the  parents  come  winging  to  the 
spot,  perch  a  second  on  a  leaf  twig,  looking  about 
for  danger,  and  then  dart  in  out  of  sight.  On  the 
same  summer-house  one  year  I  placed  a  house  for 
the  wrens,  but  it  was  promptly  leased  by  a  pair  of 
chickadees,  who  are  usually  shy,  woodland  nesters, 
for  all  their  tameness  through  the  rest  of  the  year. 
As  I  can  imitate  (so  can  any  one,  for  that  matter) 
the  call  of  the  chickadee,  I  always  whistled  softly 
in  the  morning  as  I  drew  near  the  nest,  as  the  male 
bird  always  did,  perching  on  a  twig  or  wire  some 
twenty  feet  away  and  calling  without  dropping  the 
bit  of  food  from  his  bill.  In  answer  to  my  call,  out 
of  the  hole  in  the  box  would  pop  a  tiny  black-and- 
gray  head,  and  two  sharp  eyes  would  peer  all  about 
while  I  came  close  and  looked  at  her.  If  there  is 
any  sight  in  the  world  prettier  than  that  of  a 
mother  chickadee's  head  popped  out  of  her  nest  in 
answer  to  the  call  of  her  mate,  I  have  yet  to  see  it. 
When  her  mate  was  bringing  her  food,  it  was  neither 
the  love-song  nor  the  full  chick-a-dee-dee-dee  call 
which  he  uttered,  but  only  a  sweet,  wiry  dee-dee. 


POKING   AROUND   FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    133 

Among  the  common  birds  who  customarily  nest 
in  the  orchards  or  other  trees  about  our  dwellings 


The  orchard  haunts  of  the  woodpecker  in  spring 

are,  of  course,  the  robin,  and  then  the  bluebird,  the 
orchard  and  Baltimore  orioles,  the  great  crested 
and  least  flycatcher  (or  chebec),  the  flicker,  the 


134  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

downy  woodpecker,  and  the  king-bird.  To  this 
list  may  often  be  added  the  warbling  vireo,  the 
summer  yellowbird,  the  screech-owl,  and  sometimes 
the  humming-bird.  In  my  former  yard  the  cat-bird, 
who  is  generally  associated  with  the  wild  roaol-, 
sides  or  pastures,  was  a  common  visitor,  a  pair  build- 
ing each  year  either  in  a  red  osier  dogwood  directly 
under  my  study  window  or  in  a  tall  syringa  near  by. 
But  one  does  not  commonly  think  of  them  in  such 
close  proximity  to  our  dwellings. 

The  robin,  being  a  large,  noisy,  ubiquitous  bird, 
usually  betrays  its  nest  in  short  order.  It  seems  to 
have  no  choice  of  tree  for  its  abode;  in  one  season, 
for  instance,  there  were  five  nests  around  the  house, 
one  forty  feet  up  on  the  extended  limb  of  a  pine 
(this  nest  was  robbed  by  the  red  squirrels,  after  a 
tremendous  battle),  one  in  a  small  elm,  one  in  a 
Norway  spruce,  and  two  in  apple-trees.  As  four 
of  the  five  managed  to  produce  good-sized  families, 
and  as  they  came  at  the  same  time,  there  was  a 
period  of  several  days  in  June  when  it  was  hardly 
safe  to  walk  across  the  lawn  for  fear  of  stepping  on 
a  gawky  infant.  They  waddled,  silent  and  clumsy, 
over  the  grass,  they  made  abortive  efforts  to  fly  and 
got  up  two  or  three  feet  to  low  twigs,  where  they 
perched  for  hours,  dumbly,  while  the  respective 
parents  went  scuttering  about  feeding  them  with 
enormous  worms.  It  was  a  busy,  active,  feverish 
time,  both  for  the  birds  and  for  us,  for  we  had  to  see 
that  no  cats  got  on  to  the  place. 

The  bluebird,  one  of  the  most  welcome  of  our 
early  spring  visitors,  builds  his  nest,  of  course,  in  a 
hollow  limb,  especially  preferring  orchards  where 


POKING  AROUND   FOR   BIRDS'   NESTS    135 

the  pruning  has  been  criminally  unscientific,  so  that 
the  end  of  a  branch  has  rotted  back  in  the  center. 
There  was  such  an  old  tree  in  my  former  orchard, 
purposely  left  with  hollow  stumps  sticking  out  in 
all  directions,  and  here  a  pair  of  bluebirds  nested 
every  year,  until  my  next-door  neighbor  put  up  an 
artificial  bluebird-box,  and  the  ungrateful  creatures 
went  over  to  that !  The  baby  birds  are  very  pretty, 
and  are  said  to  be  easily  tamed,  though  I  would 
never  keep  any  bird  in  captivity  myself  except  a 
crow,  which,  after  all,  is  not  a  captive,  because  he 
roams  the  place.  In  my  present  orchard  all  the 
trees  are  full  of  holes,  and  I  hope  all  the  holes  are 
going  to  be  full  of  bluebirds. 

Like  the  bluebird,  the  great  crested  flycatchers 
nest  in  old  apple-tree  cavities — often  in  the  same 
ones  the  bluebird  has  used.  That  pretty  year- 
round  orchard-dweller,  the  downy  woodpecker,  also 
lives  in  tree  cavities,  but  he  insists  on  making  his 
own  hole.  Not  so  his  big  cousin,  the  flicker.  The 
flicker  will  make  a  hole  if  necessary,  or  he  will  use 
what  he  finds  to  his  purpose.  We  had  in  our  yard  a 
huge  hickory,  cut  off  by  lightning  years  ago  about 
twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground.  The  tree  was 
evidently  partly  hollow  and  a  tin  cap  had  been 
nailed  over  the  break.  Before  we  took  the  place 
some  bird  had  drilled  a  hole  about  a  foot  below  this 
cap  into  the  tree,  a  flicker,  perhaps,  as  the  hole  was 
as  big  as  a  silver  dollar.  The  first  winter  we  were 
there  a  screech-owl  lived  in  the  tree,  and  his  mourn- 
ful whistle  made  melancholy  the  still  winter  nights. 
But  he  did  not  nest  there,  and  in  the  breeding  sea- 
son the  tree  was  pre-empted  by  a  pair  of  flickers, 


136  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

one  of  whom  had  the  most  curious  habit.  He 
would  go  in  through  the  hole  with  material  for  the 
nest,  and  presently,  as  I  would  be  working  in  the 
garden,  I  would  hear  a  tremendous  drumming  as 
if  a  small  boy  were  beating  a  dishpan.  It  was  the 
flicker,  on  the  inside  of  the  tree,  banging  away  at' 
the  tin  cap.  Whether  he  wanted  to  let  in  more 
light  to  the  nest  or  whether  he  merely  did  it  for 
amusement  I  cannot  say;  but  sometimes  the  racket 
would  be  kept  up  for  fifteen  minutes  on  a  stretch. 
It  was  impossible  to  look  into  this  nest,  and  we 
never  saw  the  young  birds,  which,  if  hatched  suc- 
cessfully, got  out  while  we  were  away  from  home. 

The  least  flycatcher,  or  chebec,  as  it  is  sometimes 
called  on  account  of  its  reiterated,  almost  metallic, 
and  nerve-racking  pair  of  notes,  makes  a  cunning 
little  nest,  usually  on  top  of  a  crotch  on  an  apple- 
tree,  or  even  saddled  on  the  straight  limb.  It  is  a 
tame  little  bird.  I  recall  in  my  boyhood  one  nest 
that  was  on  a  limb  not  over  seven  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  the  mother  grew  so  tame  she  would 
remain  on  the  eggs  while  we  pulled  the  limb  down 
level  with  our  face  and  looked  at  her.  In  this  way 
we  saw  the  little  birds  during  all  the  periods  of  their 
nest  life,  and  watched  them  grow.  To  see  their 
yawning  little  cavities  of  mouths  open  as  we  chil- 
dren poked  our  faces  to  the  nest  was  a  rare  delight. 
I  have  taken  less  delight  in  the  least  flycatcher  in 
recent  years,  since  a  pair  built  close  to  our  sleeping - 
porch  and  began  to  reiterate  che-bec,  che-bec,  every 
morning  at  about  three-thirty! 

If  you  have  ever  set  out  deliberately  to  find  a 
ruby- throated  humming-bird's  nest,  and  have  sue- 


POKING   AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS     137 

ceeded,  you  have  done  better  than  I  have.  It  cer- 
tainly requires  patience  and  the  eyesight  of  an 
Indian,  two  virtues  I  do  not  possess.  Walter  King 
Stone,  who  has  done  it  (he  showed  me  one  of  the 
nests  by  way  of  proof),  says  you  must  employ  the 
methods  of  wild-bee  hunters,  and  by  a  series  of 
observations  of  the  bird  as  it  leaves  its  flower  feed- 
ing-ground you  may  ultimately  reach  its  home. 
The  nest  is  a  beautiful  bit  of  bird  architecture, 
saddled  on  a  limb,  and  plastered  outside  with  gray 
lichen  to  color  it  protectively.  This  lichen  seems  to 
be  fastened  on  with  fiber  from  caterpillar  cocoons, 
and  the  inside  (little  larger  than  a  big  thimble)  is 
soft  and  woolly.  Only  two  eggs  are  laid.  The  new 
birds  are  more  like  naked  bugs  of  some  sort  than 
birds.  I  had  a  chance  once  to  watch  a  nest  of  them 
when  I  was  a  boy,  for  the  parents  built  in  a  syringa- 
bush  directly  under  a  window  in  our  house  near 
Boston.  There  was  a  honey  suckle -vine  close  by, 
and  all  summer  the  flash  and  hum  of  the  pretty 
creatures  made  the  veranda  more  delightful. 

In  my  boyhood,  too,  the  Baltimore  orioles,  who 
hang  their  wonderfully  clever,  pendent  gray  nests 
like  platinum  eardrops  from  the  very  ends  of 
branches,  used  to  favor  especially  the  elm-trees  over 
the  village  streets.  I  would  see  a  dozen  of  them  in 
process  of  building  on  my  way  to  school  late  in 
May,  and  often  we  put  out  strings  or  fine  strips  of 
cotton  for  the  birds  to  use.  But,  though  I  live 
now  in  a  town  famous  for  its  elms,  I  do  not  see 
many  nests  hanging  over  the  highway.  The  birds 
seem  to  have  retired  from  their  favorite  trees,  and 
now  select  the  orchard  to  build  in,  or  at  any  rate 


138  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

elms  which  stand  back  in  the  fields.  I  have  won- 
dered if  the  automobile  is  not  responsible  for  this. 
Has  any  one  else  observed  the  same  condition? 

The  birds  of  the  meadow,  the  wide,  smooth 
stretches  of  tall  grass  and  sunny  spaces  with  a  wind- 
ing river  or  a  pond  in  the  distance,  the  reaches  where 
you  stand  "knee-deep  in  June,"  are  a  gay  and 
pleasant  lot.  Their  very  names  are  musical — the 
bobolink,  the  meadow-lark,  the  bob-white,  and  the 
humorous  if  not  musical  tip-up. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  see  the  black-and-white 
bobolinks  darting  in  flocks  over  the  meadows,  or 
to  hear  the  piercingly  sweet  song  of  the  lark  pour- 
ing from  an  elm  by  the  swale  at  sunset-time,  and 
quite  another  matter  to  find  their  nests.  The  bobo- 
link, meadow-lark,  and  quail  (we  have,  alas !  practi- 
cally no  quail  in  Berkshire)  all  build  their  nests  on 
the  ground,  in  the  long  grass,  the  first  choosing  usu- 
ally a  spot  where  the  ground  is  fairly  damp,  the  last 
often  a  spot  close  to  a  hedge  of  bushes  or  shrubs. 
Moreover,  their  nests  are  woven  of  grass,  and  the 
lark  always  and  the  quail  often  weave  a  protecting 
arch  over  the  nest,  still  further  concealing  it.  Our 
golf-course  is  on  a  fine  river  meadow,  and  the  fair- 
way runs  between  strips  of  tall  grass.  It  is  alive 
all  summer  with  both  bobolinks  and  larks.  I  have 
even  seen  a  bobolink  chase  after  a  ball,  flying  down 
to  it  on  the  ground  to  investigate.  The  caddies  go 
poking  for  wild  shots  into  the  tall  grass  constantly. 
Yet  few  nests  are  ever  found.  Last  summer  the 
mowing-machine  was  running  along  within  ten 
feet  of  the  fairway,  at  a  point  where  sliced  drives 
are  constantly  entering  the  rough,  and  the  knives 


POKING  AROUND   FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    139 

cut  through  a  lark's  nest,  killing  all  but  one  of  the 
young  birds,  who  were  half  fledged  and  looked 
curiously  the  color  of  buttery  chicken  broth.  The 
poor  mother  escaped  and  went  crying  piteously 
about  the  spot,  while  the  driver  of  the  machine 
looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  burst  into  unmanly 
tears.  Without  this  tragedy  the  nest  would  prob- 
ably never  have  been  discovered,  in  spite  of  its  prox- 
imity to  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  golf-players 
every  day,  many  of  them  searching  for  balls  in  its 
immediate  vicinity.  The  larks  appear  to  run  a 
bit  through  the  grass  before  rising  to  flight,  and  to 
settle  on  the  nest  by  the  same  method,  thus  throwing 
an  enemy  off  the  track.  But  if  you  sit  patiently 
near  the  spot  where  you  have  seen  a  lark  or  a  bobo- 
link rise,  marking  the  place  carefully  by  some  con- 
spicuous weed,  and  then  watch  the  bird  return  two 
or  three  times,  you  can  get  a  general  line  on  your 
quarry  and  by  patient  searching  find  it.  The 
meadow-lark's  little  thatched  house,  looking  more 
from  the  top  like  a  ball  of  grass  than  anything,  with 
its  gawky,  long-necked,  yellow  chicks  inside,  is  well 
worth  finding. 

The  red-winged  blackbird  and  the  marsh-wren 
are  perhaps  the  commonest  and  most  interesting 
dwellers  of  the  swamp,  though  the  swamp-sparrow, 
the  bittern,  and  the  coot  are  also  common.  The 
blackbird,  in  our  part  of  the  world,  is  a  most  con- 
spicuous spring  visitor,  arriving  early  in  flocks  and 
making  lively  the  air  over  the  sedgy  borders  of  our 
streams  and  ponds.  There  is  no  general  rule  ob- 
served by  them  in  nest -building,  except  that  they 
select  some  spot  near  water,  preferably  in  a  swamp. 


i4o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Radclyffe  Dugmore  has  photographed  a  nest  in  a 
wild-rose  bush.  I  have  found  their  nests  in  alders 
frequently,  and  by  no  means  always  near  the  ground. 
But,  as  a  general  thing,  they  are  low  builders,  and 
often  hang  their  woven  baskets  of  coarse  grass 
lined  with  hair  between  three  or  four  cattail  leaves 
or  reed  stalks,  directly  over  water. 

The  marsh-wrens  build  a  more  elaborate  nest— 
or  rather,  they  build  several  nests.  If  you  find  one, 
you  are  almost  sure  to  find  others  near  by,  some  of 
them,  it  may  be,  not  finished,  some  quite  com- 
pleted. They  are  all  built,  however,  by  the  same 
pair  of  birds,  the  general  theory  being  that  it  is  done 
to  confuse  their  enemies.  The  nest  is  an  inter- 
esting construction,  rather  globular  in  shape,  woven 
of  fine  reeds  and  grasses  in  and  out  among  the  tall 
reed  stalks  which  support  it,  so  that  these  stalks 
are  incorporated  into  its  structure.  Sometimes  it 
resembles  in  shape  a  huge  Bartlett  pear  impaled  on 
a  bunch  of  cattail  spikes.  The  entrance  is  always 
in  the  side.  If  it  is  the  long-billed  marsh-wren 
whose  nest  you  are  after,  you  will  probably  fare  ill 
without  hip  rubber  boots — and  possibly  then !  The 
smaller,  short-billed  marsh-wren,  however,  often 
builds  a  similar  nest  (with  much  whiter  eggs)  on 
drier  ground  beside  the  swamp,  rather  than  directly 
over  the  water.  Both  varieties  have  the  jolly  wren 
quality  of  bustle,  and  go  chattering  and  scolding 
about  on  the  cattail  tops,  often  gathering  the 
fluffy  seeds  of  last  year's  blossoms  to  line  their 
nests  with. 

It  is  often  but  a  step  from  the  swamp  where  the 
red-wings  and  the  marsh-wrens  build  to  the  open 


POKING  AROUND   FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    141 

river  where  each  pair  of  kingfishers  have  taken  as 
their  domain  a  certain  stretch,  and  woe  to  the 
fisher  from  down-stream  or  up-stream  who  poaches 
on  their  preserves!  Here,  if  you  are  clever,  you 
may  find  their  nest,  not  always  near  the  stream, 
however,  and  without  any  cleverness  at  all  you  may 
find  the  nest  of  innumerable  bank  -  swallows,  if  a 
colony  of  them  happen  to  have  settled  in  the  sandy 
or  clayey  shelf  where  the  river  has  cut  sharply  into 
the  soil.  From  the  opposite  shore,  their  colony  of 
nests  looks  like  a  picture  of  some  abode  of  the 
ancient  cliff-dwellers.  But  the  kingfisher,  also,  who 
spends  his  days  so  proudly  and  conspicuously  aloft 
in  the  topmost  tree  branch  over  the  stream,  builds 
his  nest  by  digging  a  hole  into  a  bank,  sometimes  a 
gravel-bank  some  way  from  the  water.  He  spends 
often  a  couple  of  weeks  at' the  task,  boring  in  oc- 
casionally as  much  as  eight  feet.  When  a  kingfisher 
bore  was  discovered  near  the  top  of  the  bank  we 
boys  used  to  dig  in  from  the  surface  to  see  how  deep 
the  tunnel  ran.  At  the  end  of  it  would  be  the  eggs, 
or  the  young,  directly  on  the  ground  without  any 
soft  nest,  amid  a  filthy  mess  of  droppings  and  dis- 
gorged fish-bones.  It  isn't  pretty  to  lift  the  lid 
from  the  domestic  life  of  the  kingfisher.  Neither 
is  it  pleasant  to  put  your  hand  into  a  nest,  when 
you  haven't  got  quite  to  the  end  of  the  tunnel, 
and  have  the  mother  bird  nip  your  finger  with 
that  bill  which  can  snatch  a  pickerel  out  of  the 
water ! 

The  birds  of  the  deep  woods  are  many  and  their 
nests,  perhaps,  the  hardest  to  find.  Here  breeds 
our  loveliest  American  songster — and  perhaps  the 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


loveliest  songster  in  the  world  —  the  hermit-thrush; 
and  here,  in  mating-time,  especially  on  the  fir-clad 
slopes  of  our  Northern  mountains,  he  pours  out 
his  indescribable  melody,  while  the  sunset  makes 
magic  stained-glass  windows  down  the  cathedral 
aisles  of  the  hemlocks.  Here  breed  the  Wilson,  or 
the  veery.  Here  the  whippoorwill  lays  his  eggs  on 
the  ground,  and  in  the  rare  event  of  your  discovering 
them  (so  well  protected  are  they  in  color)  he  (or 
rather  she)  simply  moves  them  elsewhere.  Here  the 
chickadee  goes  to  raise  his  family  in  a  hollow  stump, 
here  the  partridge  builds  his  simple  nest  of  leaves 
and  a  few  feathers  at  the  base  of  a  stump,  the  crow 
builds  on  top  of  last  year's  nest  in  a  tall  pine,  the 
oven-bird  makes  his  curious  covered  nest  on  the 
ground  and  screams  teacher,  teacher,  if  you  come 
near,  the  wood-pewee  sounds  his  sweet,  sad,  an- 
dante little  call  to  his  mate,  and  the  red-eyed  vireo 
and  many  of  the  warblers  customarily  breed.  Walk- 
ing through  the  woods,  we  are  not,  as  a  rule,  aware 
of  the  great  quantity  of  bird  life  about  us.  We  hear 
the  thrushes,  to  be  sure,  though  it  is  seldom  enough 
that  we  see  a  hermit,  and  the  drumming  grouse 
arouses  us.  But  until  we  go  with  our  ears  and  eyes 
alert  for  the  birds,  especially  the  chickadees  and 
small  warblers,  we  often  think  of  our  woods  as  de- 
ficient in  bird  life  compared  with  our  fields  or  yards. 
Perhaps  that  but  shows  how  wise  the  shy  birds  are 
in  choosing  the  forest  for  a  nesting-place.  .  And 
there  is  such  a  bewildering  multiplicity  of  branches 
for  the  eye  to  search  in,  and  when  you  draw  near  the 
thrush  whose  call  you  have  heard  ringing  through 
the  hushed  forest,  he  but  flutters,  invisible,  farther 


Sounding  his  sweet,  sad,  andante  call  to  his  mate 


away,  and  you  pursue  the  vocal  will-o'-the-wisp 
through  dim  aisle  after  dim  aisle,  till  the  search 
seems  hopeless.  Indeed,  it  requires  a  rare  combina- 
tion of  woodcraft  and  patience  and  not  a  little  luck 
to  be  a  birdnester  in  the  deep  forest.  Yet  what  a 
reward  for  patience  when  you  can  suddenly  start  a 


144  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

partridge  out  from  under  the  cover  of  a  fallen  log, 
or  the  base  of  a  tree,  and,  unfooled  by  her  running 
off  with  a  pretended  broken  wing,  go  to  the  spot  and 
find  there,  in  a  nest  of  leaves  half  hidden  under  t^ie 
ferns,  perhaps  a  dozen  creamy  white  eggs  or  even, 
if  your  are  very  lucky  (it  has  never  happened  to  me), 
the  young  chicks.  I  say  very  lucky,  because  the 
chicks  leave  the  nest  practically  as  soon  as  hatched, 
and,  if  you  do  not  find  the  eggs,  what  you  will  prob- 
ably have  seen  instead  is  a  scurry  of  little  dark  puffs 
of  feathers  in  under  the  protecting  foliage  of  the 
forest  floor,  the  mother  having  attempted  to  divert 
your  attention  till  her  wise  babes  could  hide  them- 
selves. The  baby  grouse  very  soon  learn  to  fly- 
in  about  five  days,  it  is  said.  Thus  the  period  of 
gravest  danger  for  them  is  reduced  to  less  than  a 
week,  since  they  spend  no  time  in  the  nest.  No 
doubt  that  accounts  in  large  measure  for  the  per- 
sistence of  the  breed.  But  even  after  they  are  well 
grown  they  must  often  stay  by  the  parents,  for  on 
the  Crawford  Bridle  Path  up  Mount  Washington, 
before  it  breaks  out  of  the  woods  above  timber- 
line,  the  partridges  are  extremely  tame,  and  I  have 
approached  within  six  feet  of  a  family  of  eight  or 
ten,  led  by  a  big  cock.  They  went  on  feeding  quite 
undisturbed,  scratching  up  the  mossy  soil  with  soft 
little  coots,  like  gentler  domestic  hens,  and  all  fol- 
lowing behind  the  cock. 

There  is  nothing,  to  me,  more  fraught  with  charm 
and  delightful  associations  than  a  New  England 
upland  pasture,  a  pasture  of  irregular  outline,  with 
capes  of  fir  and  birch  jutting  into  it  from  the  sur- 
rounding forest,  with  a  mountain  going  up  above 


POKING  AROUND   FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    145 

and  a  long  green  valley  dropping  away  below,  per- 
haps to  the  distant  white  spire  of  the  village  church, 
with  patches  here  and  there  of  raspberry  and  blue- 
berry and  huckleberry  bushes,  and  cow-paths  amid 


The  Blackbirds  make  lively  the  air  over  the  sedgy  borders  of 
streams  and  ponds 

the  fragrant  sweet-fern,  with  thistle  tops  and  steeple- 
bush  to  prick  the  field  with  pink,  with  the  tinkle  of 
a  distant  cow-bell— and,  as  the  sun  is  sinking  in  the 
west,  the  fairy  flutes  of  the  white-throated  sparrows! 
It  is  on  the  edges  of  such  pastures  that  the  white- 
throats  (or  Peabody  birds)  build  their  nests,  from 
the  Adirondack  and  White  Mountains  northward. 
I  think  they  infrequently  nest  farther  south.  In 


146  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

the  Berkshire  Hills,  at  any  rate,  they  are  migrants, 
though  I  have  two  personal  records  of  them  here  in 
mid-  July,  and  have  not  attained  their  true  song 
when  they  pass  through.  The  books  of  bird  songs 
almost  invariably  give  the  white-throat's  melody 
something  as  follows: 


And  that  is  the  way  he  sings  till  he  reaches  the  White 
Mountains.  But  there,  at  least,  he  invariably,  in 
my  experience,  adds  two  more  intervals,  his  song 
being  as  follows: 


This  song,  with  its  clearly  marked  intervals  and  its 
exquisite  precision  of  pitch,  comes  fluting  across 
every  upland  pasture,  an  antiphonal  to  the  deeper 
clarion  of  the  thrushes  in  the  woods  behind.  The 
white-throat  I  heard  last  summer,  in  Tolland,  Mass- 
achusetts, in  July,  had  attained  this  second  song. 

The  white-throats  build  their  nests  frequently  on 
the  ground,  but  sometimes  in  low  bushes  or  fallen, 
dead  trees.  I  have  found  them  in  the  dry  branches 
of  a  small  prostrate  fir.  And  I  have  sat  beneath  a 
tree  on  the  edge  of  a  pasture  on  Cannon  Mountain 
in  Franconia  and  listened  for  an  hour  while  a  parent 
bird  tried  to  teach  a  baby  to  sing.  I  have  been  told 
by  the  real  ornithologists  that  I  did  nothing  of  the 
kind,  to  be  sure,  but  that  only  constrains  me  to 
think  the  scientists  do  not  know  everything.  The 


POKING   AROUND    FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    147 

parent  bird  would  sing,  once,  perfectly,  and  then, 
in  a  feebler  tone,  the  baby  (both  birds  plainly  visible 
not  twenty  feet  over  my  head)  would  attempt  the 
same  thing.  Sometimes  he  would  jump  the  fifth 
correctly,  sometimes  he  wouldn't  come  within  two 
notes  of  it;  and  not  once,  in  the  entire  hour,  did  he 
get  the  succeeding  intervals  with  accuracy.  But 
the  parent  bird,  fluttering  from  twig  to  twig  about 
him,  kept  opening  her  white  throat  and  pealing  out 
the  perfect  song,  and  the  little  bird  kept  trying  to 
copy  it.  I  suppose  she  wasn't  really  teaching  it, 
because  she  had  no  blackboard  nor  piano! 

The  cat-bird,  that  sleek,  elegant  creature  of  gun- 
metal  hue,  also  builds  in  the  pasture  bushes,  hiding 
his  nest  rather  neatly  in  under  an  overhang  of. 
branches,  and  choosing,  if  possible,  a  spot  near 
berry-vines.  Perhaps  that  is  why  the  pair  I  have 
spoken  of  selected  my  yard,  where  raspberries  were 
abundant.  They  were  serious  robbers  of  the  rasp- 
berry crop,  and  during  the  breeding  season  one  or 
the  other  parent  became  a  serious  nuisance  almost 
every  day  by  getting  some  silly  idea  of  danger  into 
its  head,  and  mewing  for  an  hour  on  a  stretch,  like  a 
distressed  cat,  fluttering  meanwhile  from  the  ground 
to  the  bushes,  from  the  bushes  to  the  ground  again. 
The  chewink  is  another  bird  to  look  for  in  the  past- 
ures, and  the  field-  and  vesper-sparrows,  and  the 
night-hawk,  which,  like  the  whippoorwill,  builds  no 
nest.  The  field-sparrows  raise  two  or  three  broods, 
in  grassy  nests  on  the  ground,  and  when  disturbed 
you  will  see  them  running  away  along  the  grass, 
uttering  a  sweet,  plaintive  little  note,  more  a  com- 
plaint than  a  protest. 


148  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

No  doubt  it  would  be  proper  to  classify  with  the 
pasture  birds  the  birds  of  the  roadside,  but  the  old 
country  roadsides  of  America  were  (and  often  still 
are)  such  distinctive  spots,  such  long,  natural  wild 
gardens  and  careless  hedgerows,  that  one  likes  to 
associate  certain  birds  with  them — such  as  the 
indigo-bird,  the  gay  goldfinch,  the  scarlet  tanager, 
the  song-sparrow — how  often  he  perches  on  the 
topmost  twig  of  a  little  tree  just  over  the  wall  as 
you  tramp  the  roads  in  spring,  and  pours  out  his 
melodious  song! — and  the  brown  thrasher.  The 
song- sparrow,  like  so  many  other  sparrows,  builds 
a  grassy  nest  on  the  ground,  and  because  of  his  tame- 
ness  he  often  places  it  beside  a  back  road,  just  under 
the  overhang  of  the  bank,  thus  gaining  a  perfect 
weather  protection  and  screening  his  nest  from  the 
view,  also,  of  marauding  crows  or  hawks  overhead. 

The  goldfinches,  which  are  equally  companionable 
birds,  are  great  seed-eaters.  They  come  with  their 
peculiar,  dipping  flight  in  small  flocks  to  my  long 
cosmos  bed,  and  sway  on  the  bending  stalks  while 
they  peck  at  the  seed-pods  I  have  been  too  careless  or 
too  busy  to  snip  off.  Their  bright  yellow  bodies 
on  the  tall  stems,  amid  the  great  pink  and  white 
blossoms,  make  a  delightfully  Japanese  picture. 
Their  choice  of  the  roadsides  for  nesting  purposes, 
of  course,  is  probably  due  to  the  large  variety  of 
seeds  available  near  at  hand,  and  to  the  fact  that 
they  use  thistledown  to  line  their  little  cup-shaped 
nests  with,  in  the  crotch  of  a  bush  or  small  tree. 
They  seem  to  wait  until  the  thistles  have  burst,  in 
fact,  before  breeding.  Near  my  home  is  a  tangle  of 
wild  sunflowers  and  thistles,  made  by  the  intersec- 


POKING  AROUND   FOR    BIRDS'   NESTS    149 

tion  of  two  back-country  roads  after  the  old- 
fashioned  manner,  and  over  this  pretty,  natural 
garden  bed  the  butterflies  and  goldfinches  hover 
all  day  long,  while  almost  always,  in  near-by  trees 
or  shrubs,  a  nest  or  two  may  be  found. 

Perhaps  with  the  roadsides,  too,  should  be  asso- 
ciated the  bob-white,  in  the  fortunate  regions  where 
he  may  still  be  found — with  the  split  rail  fences 
especially  which  used  to  line  the  country  ways. 
On  the  pasture  side  of  such  fences,  in  the  shallow 
V  formed  at  an  intersection,  where  the  reaper  could 
never  get  to  disturb  the  tangle  of  grass  and  sweet- 
fern,  the  quail  used  often  to  nest.  But  alas!  both 
the  fences  and  the  quails  are  fast  disappearing  now. 

The  female  of  the  indigo-bird  is  dun  and  incon- 
spicuous. It  is  her  mate  who  perches  on  a  tele- 
graph wire  or  tree  limb,  over  the  road,  and  attracts 
your  admiring  attention.  But  when  you  try  to 
follow  him  into  the  tangle  of  bushes  or  weeds  along 
the  roadside  below,  to  discover  the  nest,  you  will 
probably  find  that  he  is  leading  you  a  chase.  He 
never  seems  to  go  directly  to  his  mate.  Indeed, 
one  of  the  most  interesting  things  about  birds  at 
nesting-time  is  the  precaution  taken  by  the  average 
male  bird  to  reach  the  nest  without  detection.  I 
have  seen  even  a  chipping-sparrow  fly  to  half  a 
dozen  perches,  some  of  them  ten  or  fifteen  feet  from 
the  nest,  while  bringing  a  fly  in  its  mouth,  and  from 
each  perch  look  all  about  cautiously  before  finally 
going  in  to  the  right  spot. 

Such  are  the  environments  some  of  our  more  com- 
mon Eastern  American  birds  select  for  their  nesting- 
places.  The  list  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  of 


150 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

course.  But  what  I  have  sought  to  do  is  to  connect 
familiar  birds  with  particular  landscapes,  to  which, 
when  once  recognized,  they  add  another  element  of 
individualizing  charm;  and  to  inspire  in  a  few  more 
readers,  perhaps,  the  gentle  love  of  watching  birds, 
at  their  mating,  their  nesting,  and  their  difficult 
parenthood.  Even  if  you  have  not  the  oppor- 
tunity nor  patience  to  watch  a  marsh- wren's  nest, 
or  search  for  the  odd  little  igloo  of  the  oven-bird, 
you  can  probably  aid  the  wrens  and  the  bluebirds 
to  select  your  dwelling  or  your  yard  for  their  abode, 
and  once  you  have  watched  a  family  of  wrens  being 
brought  up,  or  tamed  a  chipping-sparrow  to  remain 
on  her  nest  and  take  a  cutworm  from  your  hand 
(it  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  tempt  her  with  a  potato- 
bug),  you  will  never  regret  your  trouble. 


THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    SWAMP 

EVEN  Matthew  Arnold,  who  once  spent  a  sum- 
mer in  Scockbridge,  condescended  to  speak 
a  good  word  for  the  Berkshire  flora.  Per- 
haps, after  that,  for  any  one  else  to  commend  our 
wild  flowers  is  to  paint  the  wood-lily.  Yet  we 
have  certain  gems  that  possibly  even  Mr.  Arnold 
did  not  find — in  person,  at  any  rate — and  certain 
secret  wild  gardens  which  his  British  boots  did  not 
invade  to  sanctify — places  which  are  nevertheless 
full  of  woodland  sweetness  and  dappled  light. 
There  is,  for  example,  Bartholomew's  Cobble — not 
a  difficult  spot  to  find,  should  I  tell  you  how  to 
reach  it,  which  I  have  no  intention  of  doing.  Bar- 
tholomew's Cobble  is  a  limestone  formation  rising 
in  sharp  little  cliffs  directly  out  of  a  sickle-shaped 
bend  in  the  river,  its  white  promontories  picked 
out  with  green  moss  and  crowned  with  pines  and 
cedars.  Back  from  the  edge  of  the  banks  the 
cobble  is  a  maze  of  flower- sprinkled  lawns — the 
close,  clean  pasture  turf  which  is  found  around  lime- 
stone— running  in  and  out  among  white  ledges  and 
gray  boulders,  sentineled  by  pines  and  dark,  trim 
cedars,  and  bordered,  along  the  rocks,  by  beds  of 
fern  and  banks  of  moss.  It  is  here  that  a  woman 
once  found  that  hybrid  between  the  walking-fern 
(Camptosorus)  and  the  ebony  spleenwort  (Asplen- 
ium  platy neuron) ,  called  the  Asplenium  ebonoides. 


iS2  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

This  is  the  only  station  for  it  ever  discovered  in 
Massachusetts,  and  after  her  report  our  leading 
botanist  spent  days  on  his  hands  and  knees  crawl- 
ing over  Bartholomew's  Cobble,  looking  for  more. 

Perhaps  you  are  not  excited  at  the  prospect  of 
discovering  a  hybrid  between  the  Camptosorus  and 
the  Asplenium  platyneuron?  To  be  quite  frank,  I 
am  not  incapacitated  myself.  But  that  is  simply 
because  ferns  are  not  my  hobby.  If  they  were, 
this  rare  hybrid  on  Bartholomew's  Cobble  would 
no  doubt  affect  me  as  a  hitherto  unrecorded  first 
folio  would  affect  a  bibliophile,  or  the  discovery  of 
a  mahogany  highboy  in  an  old  barn  would  act  upon 
the  collector  of  Colonial  antiques.  At  any  rate, 
I  can  appreciate  the  rare  and  odd  beauty  of  the 
setting,  the  effect  of  trimmed  lawns  wandering 
among  the  gray  rocks  and  the  pines,  with  open 
vistas  of  the  curving  river,  the  meadows  beyond, 
the  distant  dome  of  the  mountain. 

For  one  to  whom  ferns  are  something  of  a  mys- 
tery, almost  any  spot  on  the  ledge  of  the  mountain 
where  it  makes  its  first  leap  up  from  the  pastures 
along  my  road  will  prove  an  alluring  garden.  Here 
the  purple  cliff -brake  (Pell&a  atropurpurea),  rare 
only  in  regions  where  limestone  is  rare,  but  conse- 
quently unfamiliar  to  many  people,  raises  its  dark 
little  fronds  on  their  black,  hairlike  stems,  and 
there  are  man$5  other  ferns  besides,  from  exquisite 
toys,  hardly  two  inches  long,  in  mossy  niches,  to 
swaying  maidenhair  and  tall,  evergreen  ferns.  Here, 
in  spring,  the  early  saxifrage  puts  up  its  white 
clusters  from  the  clumps  of  moss,  delicate  hare- 
bell plants  sway  out  from  the  cliff  side  crannies,  and 


THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    SWAMP        153 

columbines  shake  their  heads  to  an  invisible  wind. 
Here,  too,  you  will  find  the  Clematis  verticillaris 
trailing  its  blue  blossoms  over  the  ground  or  low 
shrubs,  and  here  a  carpet  of  fringed  polygalas.  Here, 
too,  are  pink  lady's-slippers,  and  later  the  white, 
red-eyed  baneberries  and  the  smooth,  false  foxglove. 
It  is  a  lovely  cliff,  extending  along  the  mountain  for 
several  miles,  at  times  within  a  few  rods  of  the  high- 
way, at  times  half  a  mile  back,  shadowed  with 
birches,  chestnuts,  maples,  butternuts,  white  ash, 
and  evergreens,  and  always  flecked  and  streaked 
with  cool,  moist,  green  moss,  and  artlessly  adorned 
with  fern  and  flower.  It  amuses  me  sometimes  on  a 
summer  day  to  see  how  many  motors  rip  along  the 
highway,  the  occupants  quite  unaware  this  garden 
runs  beside  them.  But  perhaps  they  would  be  in- 
different to  it  if  they  did  know  it  was  there. 

Not  many  people,  however,  can  remain  indiffer- 
ent to  a  showy  lady's-slipper  (Cypripedium  specta- 
bile).  Any  orchid  commands  respect  from  almost 
anybody,  and  orchids,  as  a  species,  have  com- 
manded extravagant  devotion  from  a  few.  Of  all 
our  native  New  England  orchids,  of  course,  the 
showy  lady's-slipper  is  the  most  beautiful;  it  is,  in- 
deed, the  queen  of  our  wild  flowers,  more  beautiful, 
even,  than  the  fringed  gentian,  and  infinitely  more 
rare.  Its  peculiar  habitat  makes  it  extremely  diffi- 
cult of  cultivation  except  by  experts  with  facilities 
to  create  the  proper  conditions  of  soil  and  moisture, 
and  in  a  wild  state  it  seems  to  be  as  averse  to  main- 
taining itself  against  the  inroads  of  civilization — or 
as  unable  to  do  so — as  the  beaver  or  the  varying 
hare.  It  is  the  secret  queen  of  the  deep  swamps, 


i54  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  those  of  us  who  are  its  worshipers  are  yearly 
growing  more  and  more  loath  to  disclose  its  hiding- 
place  to  alien  eyes,  not  from  any  desire  to  maintain 
an  exclusive  aristocracy,  but  because  we  have 
learned  from  bitter  experience  that  a  showy  lady's- 
slipper  garden  publicly  discovered  is  a  garden  gone, 
to  a  greater  degree,  even,  than  in  the  case  of  the 
arbutus.  We  guard  our  secret  to  guard  the  very 
life  of  the  plants. 

The  Cypripedium  spectabile  comes  into  flower 
with  us  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  very  often 
while  the  swamps  are  still  wet.  (I  am  aware  that 
the  wild-flower  manuals  say  the  last  of  June,  but 
if  you  search  for  it  then  in  our  swamps  you  will 
generally  find  but  dried  or  faded  flowers.)  You 
search  for  it  clad  in  hip  rubber  boots,  and  you  find 
it,  if  at  all,  not  without  tears  (ea  as  in  rip)  and 
sweat.  Entering  the  swamp  by  a  dim  trail,  the 
remains,  perhaps,  of  an  old  logging-road,  you  pass 
borders  of  tall,  fragrant  brake  and  gracefully  bend- 
ing sprays  of  Solomon's  seal,  some  of  them  six  feet 
long.  At  first  the  woods  are  tolerably  dry,  and 
meadow-lilies  (Lilium  canadensis)  grow  gaily  in  the 
gloom.  Then  the  dim  trail  gradually  vanishes,  by 
what  seem  like  two  or  three  forks,  each  leading  to 
nowhere.  You  are  in  a  tangle  of  thorny,  ripping 
blackberry  canes,  through  which  you  tear  your  way 
to  plunge  almost  hip  deep  into  black  muck,  or  to 
find  yourself  full  in  the  midst  of  a  great  bed  of  royal 
osmunda  ferns.  Now  every  vista  of  the  woods 
looks  like  every  other  vista.  Nowhere  does  the 
sense  of  direction  fade  so  quickly  as  in  a  dense 
swamp.  Trees  are  all  around  you,  hornbeams, 


THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    SWAMP        155 

swamp  maples,  pines  that  cling  to  hassocks  which 
lift  them  enough  above  water-level  to  enable  them 
to  survive,  larches.  To  avoid  the  black  ooze  or 
the  streams  of  dark  water  that  never  seem  to  flow, 
giving  no  aid  to  the  sense  of  direction,  you  try  to 
leap  from  hassock  to  jiggling  hassock  of  the  swamp 
grass,  or  the  clumps  of  matted  fern  roots.  Some- 
times you  do  not  succeed.  Around  your  face  buzz 
mosquitoes  and  tiny,  annoying  flies.  You  are  ex- 
tremely warm,  for  there  is  no  breeze  in  here,  and 
being  rubber  clad  to  the  waist  on  a  hot  June  day 
does  not  make  for  comfort.  The  vast  uniformity 
of  the  swamp,  and  the  slight  distance  in  which  your 
eye  can  cover  the  ground  in  any  one  direction,  give 
to  the  searcher  who  does  not  know  his  country  well, 
or  is  new  to  the  game,  a  sense  of  hopelessness. 
Which  is  as  it  should  be. 

We  did  not  know  the  swamp  we  entered  one  after- 
noon last  June,  and  after  beating  it  from  end  to  end— 
a  matter  of  a  mile  or  more — and  back  again,  in  vain, 
I  advocated  giving  up  the  search.  My  reason,  how- 
ever, was  not  discouragement.  It  was  the  exhaus- 
tion of  my  tobacco  supply  and  the  inexhaustibility 
of  the  mosquito  supply.  Only  one  woman  in  the 
party  opposed  my  suggestion,  but  what  are  two 
men  against  one  determined  woman,  especially 
when  the  other  woman  is  neutral?  We  went  back. 

The  sun  was  getting  down  into  the  west  and  I 
had  gone  twice  into  the  muck  over  my  boot-tops 
when  I  suddenly  heard  a  soprano  cry  of  triumph 
off  on  my  left.  Leaping  as  rapidly  as  I  could  from 
tussock  to  tussock  (which  is,  by  the  way,  the  safest 
method  by  which  to  negotiate  them),  I  came  out 


156  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

into  a  small  partial  clearing,  filled  with  a  tall,  rank 
grass,  almost  waist -high.  In  the  center  of  this  clear- 
ing, her  yellow  hair  disheveled  by  the  undergrowth 
she  had  fought,  her  face  flushed,  but  her  eyes  aglow 
with  rapture,  stood  the  determined  member  of  our 
party.  Even  as  I  came  into  the  clearing  from  one 
side  the  other  searchers  entered  from  the  opposite 
shadow.  Then,  as  the  golden  light  of  afternoon 
struck  in  over  the  tree-tops  and  made  the  tall  grass 
golden,  too,  the  four  of  us  stood  side  by  side  and 
gazed  upon  the  little  gathering  of  woodland  queens. 
There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  of  them,  rising  on 
their  tall,  straight  stems,  from  between  the  bright 
green,  recurving  leaves,  till  they  bore  their  beautiful 
blossoms  well  above  the  golden  grass -tops,  fairy 
white  slippers  tinged  with  pink,  each  with  its  green- 
tinted,  white  lateral  petals  and  up-pointing  sepal 
worn  like  a  three-pointed  coronet.  They  were,  in- 
deed, the  proud  heads  of  queens,  but  cloistered 
queens,  secluded,  shy,  and  slimly  beautiful.  We 
touched  them  tenderly,  and  stooped  to  inhale  their 
delicate  perfume,  which  is  less  a  perfume,  perhaps, 
than  a  concentrated  exhalation  of  the  swamp  ver- 
dure and  richness.  We  picked  just  one,  as  proof  to 
a  skeptic  world  that  we  had  found  what  we  sought, 
and,  after  lingering  till  we  had  our  exact  bearings 
fixed  for  another  season,  we  moved  out  of  the  swamp 
to  a  point  where  we  could  gain,  unseen,  a  detour  to 
another  road.  Our  boots  were  hot  and  wet  and  ex- 
cessively heavy.  Our  skirts  (employing  the  domes- 
tic plural)  were  muddy  and  bedraggled  and  sagged 
with  the  weight  of  moisture.  Skirts  are  most  cer- 
tainly not  the  costume  for  bog-trotting.  Our  hands 


THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    SWAMP        157 

were  scratched,  our  faces  swollen  and  itching,  and 
I  had  no  tobacco  for  my  pipe.  Wearily  we  clomped 
along  the  road.  But  in  the  lead  clomped  she  of  the 
golden  hair  and  determined  ways,  and  in  her  hand 
she  bore  like  a  banner  of  triumph — when  she  didn't 
hold  it  like  a  baby! — the  long  green  stem  with  its 
big  plaited  leaves,  and  its  blossom  beyond  compare. 
Four  foolish  folk  we  were,  and  happy  as  only  they 
can  be  who  have  found  the  Cypripedium  spectabile 
in  the  depths  of  its  brooding  swamp. 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS 

TO  find  and  follow  an  abandoned  road  is  to 
read  a  half -obliterated  record  of  the  past,  full 
of  gaps  inviting  speculation,  and  alluring,  if 
wistful,  revelations  of  a  vanished  day,  it  may  be 
even  a  vanished  society  and  manner  of  life.  Our 
Berkshire  Hills  are  pathetically  rich  in  such  aban- 
doned roads,  and  they  make  to-day  by  far  the 
pleasantest  trails  for  the  tramper — that  semi-ex- 
tinct species  of  biped  who  still  exists  in  isolated 
specimens  and  spends  his  vacations  slyly  avoiding 
the  traveled  ways  and  the  eyes  of  motorists.  Oc- 
casionally he  is  even  found  in  small  groups,  or  herds 
of  as  many  as  three  or  four,  most  commonly,  per- 
haps, in  the  White  Mountains,  but  even  at  times  in 
our  part  of  the  world.  Even  when  in  a  herd,  how- 
ever, he  is  a  shy  animal,  consulting  his  contour  maps 
frequently  to  discover  the  worst  and  consequently 
least  frequented  roads,  and  rejoicing  more  over  the 
one  village  that  is  lost  and  never  found  again  by 
summer  residents  than  over  the  ninety  and  nine 
which  boast  palatial  inns.  For  him  these  scattered 
records  of  our  forgotten  roads.  His  feet,  and  his 
alone,  are  worthy  to  brush  their  grasses  and  his 
hands  alone  to  part  their  meeting  alder  screens. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  a  forgotten  road  in 
western  Massachusetts  was  made  twenty  years  ago, 
when,  in  my  college  days,  I  was  on  a  tramping  trip 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  159 

through  the  so-called  Beacon  Hills  which  lie  just  to 
the  east  of  the  Hoosac  Tunnel,  between  the  gorge 
of  the  Deerfield  River  and  Vermont.  The  villages 
amid  these  hills  are  far  above  sea-level — is  not  the 
cemetery  in  West  Heath  said  to  be  "the  highest 
point  of  cultivated  ground  in  Massachusetts"?-— 
and  reached  by  highways  which  lead  up  from  the 
river  and  railroad  over  thank  -you-marm  rapids 
and  beside  tumbling  brooks.  The  road  from  Mon- 
roe Bridge  to  Rowe  rises  something  like  a  thousand 
feet  in  one  mile,  which  is  considered  a  bit  of  a  grade, 
even  in  those  parts.  It  is  not  abandoned — but  it 
ought  to  be.  Before  the  Mohawk  Trail  state  high- 
way over  Hoosac  Mountain  was  built,  the  descent 
into  North  Adams  was  nearly  as  severe.  From  the 
eastern  mouth  of  the  Hoosac  Tunnel  there  is  an 
abandoned  road  which  leads  northeastward  toward 
Rowe.  It  runs  past  a  cellar  hole  or  two,  climbing 
steeply,  and  suddenly  walks  into  the  back  dooryard 
of  a  farm,  apparently  entering  the  house.  But  if 
you  go  around  the  corner  you  discover  that  it  has 
done  the  same  thing,  and  then  become  a  living  high- 
way, though  a  grassy  one.  It  keeps  on  past  several 
upland  farms,  growing  less  grassy  with  each,  till  it 
comes  down  the  hill  and  over  the  brook  to  the  front 
porch  of  the  Rowe  general  store  and  post-office. 

When  I  got  to  the  Rowe  store,  twenty  years  ago, 
I  bought  Boston  crackers  and  sage  cheese  (both  of 
which  could  still  be  procured  in  those  happy  days), 
and  entered  into  a  conversation  which  resulted  in 
my  spending  two  weeks  in  that  delightful  sky  village, 
where  a  hundred  years  before  Preserved  Smith  had 
preached  in  the  "old  center"  farther  on  up  the 


160  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

hill,  discoursing  liberalism  and  dispensing  with  the 
covenant  for  almost  a  generation  before  he  was 
found  out  by  the  orthodox  down  on  the  plains  and 
called  to  account.  The  "old  center'*  discloses,  like 
so  many  of  our  hill  towns,  plentiful  evidence  of  a 
vanished  prosperity  and  comfort.  Up  there  are  two 
fine  Colonial  dwellings,  one  of  them  with  arched 
ceilings,  and  a  ruined  town  house  and  church,  each 
of  which  could  seat,  with  room  to  spare,  the  entire 
present  population  of  the  township.  Long  ago  the 
town  got  its  name  because  a  Mr.  Rowe,  merchant, 
of  Boston,  offered  a  bell  to  the  church  if  the  citizens 
would  rename  their  town  after  him.  Previously 
the  name  had  been  Myrafield,  said  to  be  a  "  corrup- 
tion" of  My-rye-field.  A  settler  in  Charlemont,  a 
town  down  in  the  Deerfield  gorge  (the  birthplace 
of  Charles  Dudley  Warner),  cleared  a  patch  of 
beaver  meadow  up  in  the  hills,  where  he  planted 
rye.  When  asked  where  he  was  going  he  would 
reply,  "Up  to  my  rye-field."  Hence,  when  other 
settlers  followed  and  built  houses  up  here  on  the 
pleasant  hills,  the  name  clung.  Such,  at  least,  I 
was  told  in  the  Rowe  general  store  and  post-office, 
and  I  like  to  think  it  is  true. 

Between  Rowe  and  Charlemont,  in  the  direct 
line,  lies  a  mountain,  Mount  Adams,  something  over 
two  thousand  feet  high,  and  noted  for  its  blueberries 
and  raspberries.  One  day  the  then  successor  to 
the  Reverend  Preserved  Smith  asked  me  if  I  would 
like  to  see  how  the  first  settlers  went  to  and  from 
Charlemont,  and  thence  down  the  river  to  Deer- 
field,  and  so  on  to  Boston.  It  was,  I  well  remember, 
a  lovely  late  September  day,  almost  October,  and 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  161 

we  set  out  directly  for  the  mountain,  over  a  steep 
pasture  and  through  an  orchard  full  of  Porter  apple- 
trees.  For  a  time  it  seemed  doubtful  if  I  should 
ever  get  any  farther,  for  a  ripe  Porter,  sun-kissed 
and  exuding  its  incomparable  odor,  is  like  nothing 
else  on  earth.  Also,  it  makes  by  far  the  best  apple 
jelly,  as  all  old-time  housewives  knew.  Yet,  to-day, 
I  cannot  find  it  stocked  by  any  nursery,  presumably 
because  the  fruit  does  not  pack  and  ship  well — as  if 
we  were  to  grow  no  apples  for  our  own  home  use! 

But  I  digress.  Even  to-day  the  mere  thought  of 
a  Porter  apple  delays  me,  as  the  apples  themselves 
did  that  morning.  Ultimately,  however,  we  got 
started  again,  and  entered  the  woods  on  the  moun- 
tain-side, by  what  seemed  at  that  time  a  very  old 
and  well-made  logging-road.  It  headed  straight 
up  for  the  ridge,  missing  the  peak  of  the  mountain 
by  only  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  and  dropping 
down  on  the  other  side  into  a  beautiful  and  then 
heavily  timbered  erosion  "cove"  (as  it  would  be 
called  in  the  Cumberlands) ,  a  kind  of  amphitheater 
cut  into  the  mountain,  with  a  green  meadow  at  the 
bottom,  and  out  through  the  open  end  a  view  of  far 
blue  hills.  This  was  not  a  logging-road;  it  was  the 
ancient  road  for  man  and  beast  from  Charlemont  to 
Rowe.  Up  it  came  mahogany  furniture,  tea,  mo- 
lasses, silks,  and  Bibles;  down  it  went  wool  and 
syrup  and  grain.  Why  make  a  six-mile  detour  to 
follow  the  grade  of  Pelham  Brook,  when  the  straight 
line  lay  right  here,  with  nothing  but  Mount  Adams 
in  the  way?  The  ancient  road-bed  was  carpeted 
deep  with  moss  and  purpled  with  magnificent  fringed 
gentians.  It  finally  descended  to  farms  and  became 


162  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

once  more  a  living  highway.  I  well  remember, 
however,  that  in  the  yard  of  the  first  farm  we  came 
to  stood  a  large  cage,  of  wood  with  an  iron-barred 
door,  and  inside  snapped  and  spit  an  extremely 
peevish  wildcat  with  huge,  restless  paws. 

Trie  town  of  Sheffield,  where  I  now  live,  is  in  the 
southwestern  corner  of  Massachusetts,  on  the  plain 
of  the  Housatonic  River.  It  is  bounded  on  the 
west  by  the  long  rampart  of  Mount  Everett,  or  "the 
Dome, "  as  we  call  it,  which  rises  in  a  sheer  leap  for  a 
thousand  feet  directly  from  the  level,  and  then 
slopes  back  more  gradually  till  the  dominating  sum- 
mit ascends  to  a  total  height  of  2,600  feet,  the  sec- 
ond highest  mountain  in  the  state.  Sheffield  was 
settled  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
among  the  earliest  inhabitants  being  a  certain  Dutch 
family  named  Spoor  (since  changed  to  Spurr),  who 
had  a  large  grant  of  land  on  the  western  side  of  the 
township,  lying  on,  and  at  the  base  of,  the  mountain. 
They  came  from  the  Hudson  Valley,  presumably 
over  the  mountain.  My  farm  is  a  part  of  their 
grant,  and  just  beyond  my  north  boundary,  entering 
first  the  grounds  of  the  Berkshire  School,  is  an  an- 
cient road,  leading  west  from  the  state  highway. 
It  makes  directly  for  the  mountain  wall,  which  is 
here  almost  precipitous  in  places,  and  it  can  still  be 
followed  to  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  an  air-line  dis- 
tance of  considerably  less  than  a  mile,  but  a  rise  of 
almost  a  thousand  feet.  You  would  naturally  sup- 
pose that  it  would  have  to  resort  to  frequent  switch- 
backs in  order  to  make  the  ascent,  more  than  half 
of  which  is  contained  in  the  last  few  hundred  yards, 
yet  the  switchbacks  are  few.  It  makes  a  long 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  163 

swing  to  the  north,  and  then  a  long  swing  to  the 
south,  getting  in  behind  a  pine-clad  promontory  we 
call  the  Fiddler's  Elbow,  and  suddenly  emerging 
triumphant  from  the  pines  into  the  hardwoods  of 
the  level  shoulder-top.  From  this  point  it  goes 
straight  west,  by  a  more  gradual  ascent,  passing  just 
north  of  the  summit  cone,  and  beside  Guilder  Pond. 
This  little  pond,  the  highest  in  the  state,  is  over 
two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  It  is  perhaps  a 
third  of  a  mile  long,  its  shallow  water  over  a  leafy 
bottom  a  rich,  dark-brown  color,  its  banks  indented 
with  rocky  coves  and  toothed  with  jutting  ledges, 
each  sentineled  by  hemlocks  which  show  the  first 
signs  of  storm-dwarfing  in  their  twisted  growth.  (It 
is  a  curious  fact  that  on  Mount  Everett  timber-line 
is  practically  reached  at  2,500  feet.  Graylock,  fifty 
miles  to  the  north,  does  not  reach  it  at  3,500,  and  it 
is  at  something  like  4,000  feet  in  the  White  Moun- 
tains.) The  rocky  shore-line,  too,  is  pink  and  pict- 
uresque with  laurel  in  early  July,  and  the  calm 
brown  mirror  of  the  pond  holds  the  reflection  of  the 
summit  cone.  It  is  a  true  mountain  pond,  and,  for- 
tunately, is  now  a  part  of  the  Mount  Everett  State 
Reservation.  From  its  shores  the  old  road,  re- 
graded  by  the  state  at  this  point,  drops  down  three 
hundred  feet  to  the  township  of  Mount  Washington, 
a  hamlet  now  boasting  fourteen  voters  (some  may 
have  died  since  this  was  written) ,  and  situated  on  a 
high  plateau  which  again  plunges  down,  on  the 
western  side,  past  the  wild  and  beautiful  Bash  Bish 
Falls,  to  Copake  Iron  Works  in  New  York  State. 
At  present,  to  reach  Mount  Washington,  except  on 
foot,  I  must  either  go  nine  miles  south  or  five  miles 


1 64  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

north,  to  get  around  the  ridge  of  Mount  Everett  and 
find  a  road  up.  Even  these  roads  will  be  steep  and 
long,  and  half  the  year  impassable  for  motors.  But 
in  the  old  days  there  was  no  such  roundabout  jour- 
neyings,  no,  sir.  You  got  to  Mount  Washington  by 
heading  straight  for  Mount  Washington,  and  a  mere 
thousand-foot  wall  did  not  deter  you.  Nor  has  this 
old  road  been  so  long  abandoned,  as  time  runs.  Our 
village  doctor  can  remember  driving  down  it  once  in 
a  buggy  a  mere  forty  years  ago,  and  on  the  less 
steep  portion,  above  the  shoulder,  the  crown  and 
side  ditches  are  still  detectable  here  and  there, 
while  the  trees  have  not  always  closed  across  it  nor 
the  shrubs  badly  grown  in. 

Five  miles  south,  almost  exactly  on  the  Connec- 
ticut state  line,  another  road  leads  up  the  cliff  into 
Sage's  Ravine  and  then  to  Plantain  Pond  and 
Mount  Washington.  It  is  still  on  the  maps,  too, 
and  I  have  been  frequently  asked  if  it  can  be  trav- 
eled in  a  motor,  but  not,  unfortunately,  as  yet  by 
anybody  whom  I  particularly  dislike.  As  no  author 
dislikes  his  readers,  I  hasten  to  assure  you  that  it 
cannot.  It  has  been  used  of  late  years  exclusively 
by  a  periodic  brook,  which  is  almost  as  destructive 
to  a  road  surface  as  the  town  scraper  in  the  hands  of 
our  selectmen.  Not  far  up  this  road  are"  the  cellar 
hole,  the  clearings,  the  dilapidated  orchard,  of  an 
old-time  farm,  and  the  dooryard  is  still  riotous  with 
spiraea  and  day-lilies,  which  have  successfully  stood 
off  the  goldenrod,  the  blackberries,  the  hardhack, 
and  the  seedling  maples. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  Housatonic  Valley, 
from  the  Connecticut  line  northward,  is  a  wall  of 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  165 

hills  leading  to  a  high,  broken  plateau  which  ex- 
tends eastward  for  many  miles,  till  it  begins  to 
break  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut 
River.  Through  this  region,  not  through  the  city 
of  Pittsfield,  the  stage-coach  line  from  Boston  to 
Albany  used  to  pass,  via  Hartford  and  the  Farm- 
ington  River  gorge.  It  is  a  pathetic  region  of  high 
pastures  going  back  to  scrub  wilderness,  of  once 
prosperous  villages  with  beautiful  Colonial  houses, 
some  of  them  belonging  to  the  riper  third  period, 
slowly  being  abandoned  to  decay  (or  Polish  Jews), 
of  eloquent  cellar  holes,  gray,  ruined  barns,  the 
"No  trespassing"  signs  of  game  preserves  owned  by 
non-residents,  of  course,  and  of  forgotten  roads  that 
once  led  past  prosperous  farms,  from  town  to  town, 
and  now  lead  past  nothing  but  encroaching  forest 
and  are  only  to  be  discovered  by  the  initiated. 

I  well  remember  one  such  road,  if  only  for  the 
human  associations  it  disclosed,  though  the  day  was 
crisp  and  fair  when  we  tramped  it,  the  woods  were 
putting  on  their  autumn  glory,  and  two  does,  with 
a  fawn  behind  them,  looked  at  us  over  a  tumbled- 
down  wall.  This  road,  we  learned,  was  young  in 
forgetfulness,  having  been  abandoned  but  fifteen 
years,  though  for  a  generation  before  that  it  could 
have  seen  but  little  travel.  The  rows  of  sugar- 
maples,  planted  a  century  ago,  the  open  fields,  the 
still  visible  stone  walls,  proclaimed  the  proximity  of 
a  farm,  and  over  a  rocky  crest,  which  commanded 
a  wide  prospect,  we  came  to  the  dwelling.  It  still 
stood  four  square  to  the  winds,  with  both  main 
chimneys  intact  and  telling  us  it  belonged  to  a  later 
period  than  the  type  of  house  built  around  a  central 


1 66  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

chimney.  The  front  door  and  windows  were  boarded 
up,  but  the  rear  door  was  entirely  gone,  and  we 
entered  the  kitchen,  where  we  had  evidently  been 
preceded  in  past  years  by  wandering  cattle.  Here 
was  a  great  fireplace,  with  paneling  over  it,  and  large 
panels  on  either  side.  The  two  front  rooms  boasted 
hand-worked  window-trim,  and  each  had  its  excel- 
lent mantel,  with  considerable  cabinet-work  upon 
it,  and  a  curiously  flat -molded  chair-rail  all  around, 
in  excellent  preservation.  Endeavoring  to  pry  a 
piece  of  this  rail  loose,  we  discovered  that  it  was  not 
applied  over  the  lathing,  but  was  molded  on  the 
face  of  studding  which  was  built  into  the  frame  and 
went  clean  through  to  the  outer  sheathing,  which  in 
turn  was  nailed  to  it.  There  is  construction  for 
you!  It  must  have  added  many  days  or  even 
weeks  of  labor.  The  floors  of  this  house  were  com- 
posed of  maple  planks  from  twelve  to  twenty-four 
inches  wide.  And  everywhere  was  the  scum  and 
litter  left  behind  by  a  gang  of  lumberjacks  who  had 
occupied  it  a  few  years  before  while  the  near-by  pine 
woods  were  being  slaughtered. 

We  left  it  presently,  and  followed  the  old  road 
down  a  slope  into  a  swampy  reach  where  huge  alders 
met  over  our  heads  and  the  road-bed  had  long  ago 
been  absorbed  by  the  muck.  Emerging  on  the 
farther  side  and  climbing  a  hill  where  the  chestnut 
burs  littered  the  grassy  way,  we  once  more  came 
upon  the  roadside  maples  in  golden  procession,  with 
the  remnants  of  a  clearing  over  the  tumbled-down 
stone  wall,  and  knew  that  another  house  was  once, 
at  least,  near  by.  In  a  moment  we  reached  what 
was  left  of  it — the  great  foundation  and  first-story 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  167 

fireplaces  (two  smaller  ones  on  the  sides  and  a  huge 
one  behind)  of  the  stone  chimney  rising  out  of  a 
rotting  mass  of  bricks,  plaster,  and  woodwork,  with 
nothing  else  left  standing  except  a  portion  of  one 
side  wall,  to  the  second-story  beams,  with  two  win- 
dow openings  still  intact.  Yes,  there  was  some- 
thing else!  Half  against  this  wall,  in  what  was  once 
a  corner  of  the  room,  turned  gray  and  furry  by 
the  weather,  rose  the  frame  of  a  corner  cupboard,  the 
base  split  away  by  the  collapse  of  the  floor  and 
standing  by  a  seeming  miracle,  but  the  fluted  pi- 
lasters on  either  side,  and  the  connecting  cap  and 
cornice,  apparently  intact.  The  lower  portion  of 
the  cupboard  had  once  been  inclosed  by  a  door;  the 
upper  part  had  evidently  always  been  open,  with 
four  gracefully  curved  shelves.  There  it  stood, 
above  the  mournful  ruins,  like  a  gray  ghost  of  the 
departed  domestic  life.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the 
wraiths  of  a  luster  pitcher  and  a  blue-china  tea-set 
would  appear  upon  its  shelves. 

We  made  our  way  to  it,  over  the  debris  pile  in  the 
cellar  hole,  and  with  all  the  gentleness  possible 
disengaged  it  from  the  side  wall  and  the  single  rotted 
joist  which  upheld  it  at  the  back.  But,  in  spite 
of  our  tenderness,  it  fell  quite  to  pieces.  The 
carved  keystone  cap  and  cornice  moldings,  rotted 
by  water  from  above,  separated  into  their  com- 
ponent parts  or  even  disintegrated  into  a  brown 
powder,  leaving  scarcely  enough  for  a  reconstruc- 
tion model.  The  shelves  were  rotted  to  a  kind  of 
damp  punk.  Only  the  fluted  side  pieces,  or 
pilasters,  could  ever  be  used  again  (with  recon- 
structed capitals).  And  they  are  going  to  be. 


168 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

The  rest  of  the  tramp  down  that  forgotten  road 
was  tinder  the  shouldered  burden  of  them,  and 
when  the  alders  met  overhead  there  was  less  re- 
joicing than  before. 

So  we  emerged,  at  length,  into  a  road  which  we 
knew  was  not  abandoned,  chiefly  because  we  de- 
tected the  track  of  a  motor  tire,  and  in  time  swung 
the  circle  home,  or  to  our  own  waiting  motor,  rather, 
because  in  these  days  you  go  on  a  tramp  by  riding 
as  far  as  you  can,  and  walking  only  when  you  are 
sure  no  cars  will  follow  you. 

The  total  length  of  this  particular  abandoned  road 
was,  I  suppose,  about  six  miles.  It  ran  north  and 
south.  By  employing  here  and  there  a  few  back- 
country  highways  to  bridge  the  gaps,  I  think  it 
would  be  possible,  however,  to  walk  from  Connec- 
ticut to  Vermont,  across  western  Massachusetts, 
or  from  the  Housatonic  Valley  to  the  brook-heads 
of  the  Connecticut  Valley,  on  practically  abandoned 
and  in  places  virtually  forgotten  roads.  I  have 
never  done  it;  one  no  longer  has  time  for  such 
amiable  or  wistful  wanderings  in  these  latter 
days.  But  I  am  sure  it  could  be  done,  with 
sufficient  zigzagging,  consultation  of  ancient  gazet- 
teers, and  consultation  with  ancient  gossips. 
The  ancient  gazetteers  alone  are  interesting;  the 
ancient  gossips  more  so.  Some  day  I  shall  try  it. 
It  is  my  Carcassonne.  And,  who  knows,  I  may 
find  another  corner  cupboard?  They  once  lived 
well  on  our  forgotten  roads,  with  fires  that  roared 
on  marble  hearthstones,  to  send  back  reflections 
from  blue-china  bowls  and  glints  from  the  white 
paint  on  wide  pine  panels,  worked  by  hand.  Now, 


FORGOTTEN    ROADS  169 

even  more  than  their  roads,  they,  the  people,  are 
forgotten — a  vanished  race.  I  come  down  from 
our  hills  sometimes  as  if  I  were  descending  from  a 
dream  of  dead  days.  In  the  cellar  hole  of  the  San- 
disfield  church,  I  think,  lies  buried  the  grace  and 
the  strength  and  the  bitter  iron  of  an  old  theology, 
and  in  the  sagging  ruins  of  the  splendid  Colonial 
abode  beyond  this  cellar  hole  move  the  ghosts  of 
men  and  women  who  dared  cheerfully  to  conquer 
a  wilderness,  a  wilderness  that  is  now  driving  the 
last  of  their  descendants  down  to  the  plain  once 
more.  The  old  order  changeth,  indeed;  but  it  is 
by  no  means  certain  that  it  is  the  good  customs 
which  corrupt  the  world. 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN 
AN  ESSAY  IN  WAR-TIME 

I  AM  in  possession  of  a  log  cabin  on  a  steep 
Berkshire  mountain-side,  in  the  midst  of  tim- 
ber which  stretches  west  from  the  base  of  the 
limestone  cliffs  below,  up  past  my  door,  across  a 
small  plateau,  and  then  on  up  the  precipitous  1,500- 
foot  shoulder  above  me,  over  that  to  the  summit 
dome  four  miles  beyond,  and  down  the  other  slope. 
North  and  south  it  sweeps  for  fifteen  miles  along 
the  range.  It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  exten- 
sive unbroken  forest  belts  in  the  state,  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  wildest.  Deer,  foxes,  'coons, 
rattlesnakes,  wildcat,  great  horned  owls,  hermit - 
thrushes,  even  now  and  then  a  moose,  are  my 
neighbors;  and  the  wild,  unearthly  scream  of  a  fox 
at  night,  or  the  deep,  foghorn  hoot  of  a  distant  owl, 
answered  from  some  ravine  a  half-mile  away,  are 
sounds  that  mingle  strangely  with  the  snapping 
purr  of  a  motor  rushing  by  on  the  state  road  beneath, 
which  marks  the  eastern  boundary  of  the  wilderness 
tract. 

But  nothing  could  be  more  peaceful,  more  quietly 
lonely  and  lovely,  than  the  spot  where  my  cabin 
stands,  on  this  bright  Sabbath  morning  in  August. 
The  heat  has  passed  with  a  shower  yesterday.  A 
fresh  world  lifts  crisply  up  toward  a  sky  of  infinite 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         171 

blue.  I  am  aware  with  a  pang  of  almost  intolerable 
sorrow  of  the  peacefulness  about  me.  How  strange, 
how  bitter  the  very  word  sounds!  Even  here, 
where  I  have  come  to  forget  for  a  day,  I  cannot  for- 
get. Dear  friends,  youngsters  I  have  watched  grow 
up,  relatives,  a  myriad  unknown  brothers  of  every 
creed  and  color,  are  to-day  plunged  in  bloody  battle 
killing  and  being  killed,  and  man  has  made  of  peace 
a  mockery.  I  will  not  take  the  easy  way  and  say  a 
man  has  done  so,  for  no  one  man  could  do  it,  though 
he  were  twenty  times  an  emperor.  It  will  ill  avail 
for  a  too-long-complacent  multitude  to  rise  up 
now  and  put  all  the  blame  upon  a  few.  Some  of 
the  sins  are  of  our  own  omission.  But  I  let  that 
pass.  What  I  try  to  do  just  now  is  to  realize  with  a 
care  never  before  exercised  in  what  was  essentially 
a  care-free  enjoyment  what  it  is  exactly  in  my  sur- 
roundings that  gives  me  so  much  pleasure,  and  from 
that  to  realize,  if  possible,  what  strange  duality  in 
our  natures  must  be  explained  in  order  to  under- 
stand even  a  little  the  terrible  facts  of  armed 
conflict.  I  do  not  expect  to  get  far  on  the  road  of 
explanation.  But  at  least  I  shall  learn  a  little,  it 
may  be,  about  myself. 

Something  that  interests  me  greatly  as  I  observe 
the  process  from  my  cabin  is  the  succession  of  forest 
trees.  I  remember  reading  Thoreau  on  the  subject 
in  my  boyhood,  and  thinking  even  then  that  per- 
haps he  overworked  the  squirrels.  How  trans- 
parently obvious  the  process  is  in  certain  spots, 
like  this  where  my  cabin  nestles.  I  can  sit  on  the 
corner  of  my  little  veranda  and  have  it  all  under 
my  eye.  It  is  based,  practically,  on  two  facts — that 


172  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

young  evergreens  are  tolerant  of  considerable  shade 
and  can  reach  a  sturdy  size  under  a  hardwood  stand, 
and  that  hardwood  seeds  will  sprout  under  the  dense 
cover  of  evergreens,  where  the  conifers'  own  seeds 
fail  to  germinate.  Though  the  hardwood  seedlings 
die  speedily,  yet  there  is  always  a  little  new  cover 
of  them  waiting  a  chance,  and  when  the  evergreen 
forest  is  cut  down,  there  they  are,  so  well  started 
ahead  of  the  evergreen  seeds  that  they  easily  take 
possession  of  the  new  stand.  Even  if  they  had  not 
already  sprouted,  they  would  .outstrip  evergreens 
from  an  even  start. 

Directly  in  front  of  me  here,  on  the  crest  of  the 
cliff,  is  a  mixed  stand  of  hardwoods  with  sunny  open 
glades,  gardens  of  ferns  and  smooth  false  fox- 
gloves, of  wild  grape  and  red  osier  dogwood  and  the 
delicate  little  white  blooms  of  the  hog  peanut  (they 
are  pure  white  on  my  cliffs,  not  pink  or  purple). 
Everywhere  through  this  open  stand,  mixing  freely 
with  the  maple,  oak,  and  chestnut  saplings,  are 
young  pines  and  hemlocks,  of  every  size  from  tiny 
year-old  seedlings  to  trees  six  and  eight  feet  tall. 
When  these  latter  are  pines  they  are  sometimes 
dying  in  the  shadow,  but  in  the  sunny  glades  they 
have  pushed  up  two  feet  of  new  leader  this  season. 
They  and  the  hemlocks  are  ready  to  dispute  the 
ground  the  moment  the  hard  timber  is  cut  off. 

But  just  back  of  my  cabin,  on  a  rocky  plateau,  is 
a  dense  stand  of  pure  hemlock,  a  young  stand,  I 
should  say  not  over  thirty  or  forty  years  of  age. 
The  little  conifers  march  right  up  to  the  edge  of  this 
and  there  they  stop  abruptly.  Sitting  in  my  chair, 
I  can  look  in  under  the  hemlocks,  up  the  mysterious 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         173 

brownish-red  vistas,  where  the  rocks  gleam  white 
in  the  dappled  spots  of  sunlight,  and  I  cannot  de- 
tect a  single  seedling.  I  get  up  to  investigate  more 
carefully.  There  is  plenty  of  vegetation  peeping 
up  through  the  brown  needles — Mitchella  vines, 
the  wonderful  blue  berries  of  a  Clintonia  borealis, 
seedling  canoe  birches,  maples,  ash,  chestnut,  even 
an  oak  or  two.  But  not  a  seedling  evergreen  can  I 
find.  The  cone  seeds  need  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
to  sprout.  Should  this  hemlock  stand  be  cut  down 
to-morrow,  a  hardwood  grove  would  succeed  it. 
A  little  higher  up  the  mountain  is  a  far  more  aged 
and  impressive  stand  of  hemlocks,  with  moss  on 
the  rocks  beneath  the  cathedral  naves  and  the  sense 
of  a  lofty  roof  upborne  on  huge  brown  columns. 
But  even  here  I  find  on  the  floor  the  twin  seed- 
leaves  of  many  maples  and  birches,  and  as  I  look 
out  toward  the  edge  of  the  stand,  where  the  sun- 
light seems  to  form  a  golden  wall,  I  see  a  little  host 
of  green  things  marching  in,  trees  a  foot  tall  or  more 
adventuring  under  the  solemn  shadow,  at  first  in 
solid  formation,  but  soon  scattering  till  only  the 
hardiest  pioneers  reach  the  belt  where  the  sun- 
light never  falls. 

How  like  little,  shining  green  knights  these  pio- 
neers of  the  next  forest  generation  look  as  they 
push  in  out  of  the  golden  sunshine,  exploring  the 
shadows ! 

After  all,  it  isn't  so  much  how  or  why  the  new 
forest  comes  that  intrigues  me,  as  the  mere  fact  of 
its  coming  at  all.  This  rich  black  mold  I  turn  up 
with  the  toe  of  my  boot  is  the  deposit  of  uncounted 
forest  generations  dead  and  gone;  and,  all  the 


174  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

stronger  for  their  natural  dissolution,  the  shining 
green  seedlings  of  the  forest  which  is  to  be  scout  at 
the  feet  of  the  aged  hemlocks,  ready  to  take  their 
places.  The  wind  whispers  solemnly  over  my  head, 
a  wood-pewee  calls  sweetly,  a  warbler  tinkles  past, 
swift  and  silent,  giving  me  no  chance  to  identify 
him.  Peace  and  beauty,  fragrance  and  wonder,  are 
at  the  heart  of  the  scene. 

On  the  way  back  to  my  cabin  I  see  the  stalk  of  a 
Lilium  philadelphicum  holding  up  its  green  seed-pod, 
and  with  a  stick  I  dig  up  the  bulb,  to  transplant 
into  my  wild-flower  garden  at  my  dwelling  below. 
I  carefully  unwind,  too,  the  slender  thread  of  a  hog- 
peanut  vine  from  the  seedling  tree  which  it  has  used 
for  a  trellis,  and  bring  its  two-foot  length,  with  its 
pretty,  white,  vetchlike  blooms,  to  hang  over  my 
railing.  I  note  a  patch  of  purple  cliff-brake,  not 
on  a  damp,  shaded  rock,  but  amid  grass,  in  full  sun- 
light, and  put  up  a  stick  to  mark  the  spot,  that  I 
may  come  in  the  spring  and  get  some  for  certain  dry 
rocks  in  my  garden.  I  see  with  delight,  too,  the 
leaves  of  the  hepaticas  on  the  forest  floor,  a  curious 
reminder  in  August  of  the  vanished  April,  or  is  it  a 
reminder  of  the  April  to  come?  To  me  there  is  a 
rare  and  delicate  pleasure  in  detecting  the  foliage 
of  the  dainty  spring  wild  flowers,  amid  the  ranker 
growth  of  midsummer;  it  is  a  subtle  overtone  of  en- 
joym^it,  or  an  under-song  of  memory.  .  .  . 

I  am  back  on  my  cabin  veranda  now,  in  my  bat- 
tered old  rocking-chair,  with  a  board  across  the  arms 
for  a  desk.  Looking  west,  through  a  velvety  hole 
along  the  edge  of  the  hemlocks,  I  can  see  a  bit  of  the 
leaping  mountain  shoulder,  lifting  its  naked  gray 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         175 

cliffs  and  its  great  hemlocks  up  to  the  blue  sky, 
where  a  cloud  dome  rides.  Looking  east  through 
the  tracery  of  tree-tops  rising  from  the  base  of  the 
cliff  below  me,  I  can  see  out  over  the  valley,  with 
its  green  fields,  its  road  ribbons,  its  distant  white 
spire,  to  the  line  of  dreaming  hills  that  billows  along 
the  far  horizon.  A  white  butterfly  flits  silently 
against  the  velvet,  feathery-shadowed  bank  of  hem- 
locks. In  the  cleft  of  a  rock  a  single  fern  frond, 
stirred  by  an  invisible  wind,  waves  excitedly,  as  if 
it  were  beckoning  to  somebody.  A  long  way  off, 
far  up  the  steep  mountain,  a  hermit-thrush  sud- 
denly sings  once  and  then  is  silent — dreaming, 
perhaps,  of  the  vanished  June.  In  the  valley  a 
cowbell  tinkles,  silvery  and  sweet.  I  can  hear  a 
little  girl  calling  a  dog.  The  hemlocks  are  whisper- 
ing together;  they  talk  softly  of  their  sister,  the  sea. 
Peace  and  loveliness  enfold  me,  and  my  soul  is 
glad;  it  comes  forth  to  meet  this  loveliness  and  in 
the  meeting  to  find  happiness.  You,  who  chance  to 
read,  will  know  exactly  what  I  mean,  though  my 
words  have  been  clumsy.  Your  soul,  too,  goes  out 
to  such  glad  meetings.  If  you  and  I,  then,  are  of 
such  stuff,  capable  of  such  delicate  delights,  if  man 
is  so  far  attuned  to  loveliness,  what  means  this  red 
carnage  of  the  world,  this  bloodiest  and  most  shock^ 
ing  of  all  human  paradoxes?  I  am  thinking  now  of 
the  men  of  the  offending~nation.  Just  beyond  my 
cabin  is  a  hickory-tree.  I  can  see  the  nuts  forming. 
As  I  look  at  it,  a  tune  creeps  into  my  head,  and, 
closing  my  eyes  'while  the  wind  in  the  hemlocks 
seems  to  play  the  rippling  accompaniment,  I  hear 
the  incomparable  loveliness  of  "Die  Nussbaum,"  a 


176 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

loveliness  that  is  close  to  tears,  like  all  things  per- 
fect. It  will  not  do  to  say  there  is  no  paradox  here 
in  this  race,  nor  that  this  race  alone  has  accepted 
the  arbitrament  of  war.  It  is  not  true.  Locking 
beyond  the  present  struggle,  as  I  can  look  beyond 
the  present  forest  about  me,  in  the  ancient  stumps 
and  mold,  or  the  new  seedlings  pushing  up,  I  see 
beauty  and  the  love  of  beauty  everywhere,  and 
foul  cruelty  beside  it,  of  different  kinds  and  different 
degrees,  but  cruelty  none  the  less.  Just  now  a 
hermit-thrush  winged  without  a  sound  to  a  dead 
limb  not  ten  feet  away  from  me.  I  turned  my 
head,  and  the  movement  caught  his  eye.  With  a 
startled  flutter,  he  flew  swiftly  and  silently  away 
again,  he,  the  loveliest  of  earthly  singers,  who  could 
not  abide  my  presence !  You  may  smile  if  you  like, 
but  I  felt  bitterly  ashamed. 

I  have  just  been  reading  of  the  rice  riots  in  Japan, 
for  example,  reading  back  in  my  library  while  sit- 
ting beneath  a  print  by  Hiroshige.  I  read  that 
these  riots  are  caused  by  the  fact  that  a  few  men  in 
Japan,  "imitating  western  capitalism  at  its  most 
ruthless, "  have  made  millions  in  the  past  three 
years,  while  the  wages  of  the  laborers  have  been 
kept  at  the  old  level,  in  spite  of  rising  prices.  That 
is  Japan,  land  of  exquisite  gardens,  of  color  prints 
never  equaled  elsewhere,  of  sensitiveness  to  flower 
and  landscape  charm,  to  the  most  delicate  subtle- 
ties of  line  and  color.  Yet  has  Japan  apparently 
countenanced  the  ugliest  effects  of  industrial  des- 
potism. The  explanation  that  such  is  their  form 
of  government  and  tradition  cannot  satisfy  me. 
Forms  of  government  and  traditions  are  what  the 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         177 

people  make  them,  after  all.  Why  have  the  Japan- 
ese not  carried  their  sense  of  beauty  into  the  ma- 
chinery of  their  civic  life?  A  happy  populace  is 
more  important  in  the  end  than  a  Hiroshige  print. 
What  does  it  avail  that  Germany  could  give  the 
world  "Die  Nussbaum"  and  "Der  Mtiller  und  der 
Bach"  when  she  also  set  the  match  to  the  present 
conflagration?  We  must,  we  are  told,  "face  facts." 
Well,  one  fact  certainly  is  that  man  loves  beauty, 
knowledge,  those  spiritual  adventures  in  which  the 
imagination  plays  a  part  and  the  world  is  helped, 
not  hurt.  This  is  as  much  a  fact  as  the  present 
conflict  and  the  present  inescapable  need  for  bearing 
arms  against  the  universal  foe.  What  puzzles  me, 
as  I  sit  in  my  cabin,  is  how  to  reconcile  these  irrec- 
oncilable facts.  That  there  is  at  present  a  uni- 
versal foe — and  a  foe  who  produced  Schumann  and 
Schubert,  that  the  greatest  of  all  wars  is  possible 
in  the  latest  of  centuries,  is  due,  of  course,  to  the 
fact  that  mankind  as  a  whole  has  never  really  made 
an  honest,  sincere,  enthusiastic  effort  to  prevent 
wars.  That  he  has  not  done  so  is  no  less  certainly 
due  to  the  fact  that  he  has  either  secretly  approved 
of  them  or  else  that  he  has  seen  no  way  to  avoid 
them  without  a  measure  of  personal  and  national 
self-sacrifice.  Either  explanation  is  not  flattering 
to  the  creature  who  can  imprison  perfection  in  a 
song  or  fix  forever  upon  a  square  of  paper  the  loveli- 
ness of  a  brooding  mountain-top,  or  merely  sit  in  the 
woods  and  thrill  to  the  call  of  a  hermit-thrush.  It 
argues  a  strange,  perverse  duality  in  his  nature.  .  .  . 
I  have  just  left  my  veranda  and  picked  a  smooth 
false  foxglove  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  admiring 


178  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

its  color — is  it  sulphur-yellow  in  the  shadow?  It 
causes  me  to  think  of  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  a 
man  of  great  wealth  and  the  power  which  comes 
with  wealth.  He  has  two  " hobbies,"  as  the  world 
calls  them — painting  and  gardening.  His  paintings 
are  of  no  consequence  save  to  him,  but  they  repre- 
sent his  effort  to  put  on  canvas  the  beauty  he  feels  in 
the  natural  world.  His  garden,  too,  answers  a  crea- 
tive impulse  of  his  soul  to  make  something  beauti- 
ful. I  have  seen  him  stroke  softly  the  petals  of  a 
rare  peony  as  if  he  were  caressing  the  head  of  a  child. 
Yet  I  know  from  many  conversations  that  he  be- 
lieves in  his  "divine  right"  to  control  the  industrial 
destinies  of  the  men  in  his  mills,  simply  because  he 
owns  the  machinery,  no  less  firmly  and  tenaciously 
than  the  Kaiser  believes  in  his  right  of  kingship. 
He  will  not  treat  with  a  union,  his  face  grows  hard 
and  arrogant  at  any  mention  of  industrial  democ- 
racy, and  the  squalor  and  ugliness  of  the  habita- 
tions and  the  lives  of  his  workers  are  in  strange 
contrast  to  his  own  beds  of  peonies.  He  is  one  of 
those  men — too  numerous,  alas! — who  are  fighting 
for  democracy  abroad  without  any  conception  of  a 
changed  ideal  of  democracy  at  home.  My  friends 
the  socialists  would  call  this  man  a  hard  taskmaster, 
and  admit  no  good  in  him.  He  would  be  marked 
among  the  first  victims  if  a  revolution  were  to  come 
here.  And,  indeed,  I  have  to  admit  that  they 
would  have  considerable  justification.  Yet  I  know 
that  his  soul  hungers  for  beauty,  that  it  goes  out  to 
spiritual  meetings  with  things  lovely  and  of  good 
report.  I  who  have  seen  him  admire  a  peony  can 
hardly  realize  that  he  has  cursed  a  committee  of 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         179 

workers  who  asked  for  enough  of  the  profits  of  their 
toil  to  buy  meat  once  a  week. 

I  sit  here  on  my  cabin  veranda,  while  the  wind 
whispers  in  the  hemlocks,  and  try  to  think  what  is 
the  duality  in  my  own  nature,  what  paradoxes  my 
life  offers  between  a  love  of  beauty  and  the  responsi- 
bility for  ugliness,  between  spiritual  kindliness  and 
cruelty.  To  be  sure,  I  have  never  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  control  the  destinies  of  any  of  my  fellow- 
men,  and  it  is  doubtless  impossible  to  say  how  I 
should  act  in  such  a  situation.  But  I  can  honestly 
say  that  I  have  no  desire  to  control  them.  Neither 
have  I  any  desire  for  wealth  beyond  a  point  that 
insures  comfort,  a  point  that  might  be  reached  by 
every  family  in  America  under  a  different  economic 
S}rstem.  I  certainly  feel  no  divine  right  to  rule 
anybody,  and  just  as  certainly  I  feel  that  nobody 
has  any  divine  right  to  rule  me.  My  happiness 
consists  in  doing  my  own  work  as  well  as  I  can,  in 
the  companionship  of  kindly  people  and  beautiful 
objects,  and,  I  have  always  placidly  supposed,  in 
the  sense  of  social  well-being  around  me.  My 
greatest  unhappiness  I  thought  to  be  caused  by  in- 
justice, cruelty,  and  social  ugliness.  On  the  whole, 
this  summary  would  seem  to  show  that  I  am  a 
pretty  fine  fellow — and  yet  something  is  wrong 
with  me.  There's  another  fellow  somewhere.  I 
had  a  peep  at  him  only  yesterday,  when  I  read  of 
an  Allied  bombing  raid  over  a  German  city.  Of 
course,  I  should  have  been  horrified,  or  at  the  very 
least  grieved  that  the  Allies  had  to  sink  to  the  level 
of  German  "atrocities."  But  I  wasn't.  Honesty 
compels  me  to  admit  that  I  was  delighted.  I  hoped 


i8o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

the  bombs  wrecked  houses,  killed  the  inhabitants 
right  and  left,  and  generally  messed  things  up. 
This  is  sheer  savagery,  induced  by  the  spirit  of 
retaliation  and  revenge.  It  isn't  my  normal  seli;, 
it  is  not  the  normal  self  of  any  of  us.  It  is  the  self- 
released  by  war.  But  it  never  would  have  been 
released  by  war  if  we  who  have  better  selves  to  con- 
trol it  had  made  wars  impossible.  I  am  at  least 
one-billionth  part  responsible  for  this  war,  and  while 
one-billionth  is  not  a  large  fraction,  the  awful  thing 
to  be  divided  is  so  vast  that  my  guilt  is  considerable. 
Wherein  does  it  consist?  How  have  I  failed  that 
ideal  of  beauty,  of  harmony,  of  peace  and  happiness 
which  should  be,  and  I  often  believe  is,  my  guide? 

And  it  seems  to  me,  as  I  turn  the  matter  over  here 
in  the  stillness  of  the  forest,  that  I  have  failed  ex- 
actly as  hundreds  of  thousands  of  my  fellow- 
countrymen,  and  brothers  overseas  have  failed — 
through  selfishness;  personal  selfishness  first,  na- 
tional selfishness  second,  which  is  but  an  expanded 
form  of  the  personal  variety.  My  woods,  my  gar- 
den, my  house,  my  books,  my  pictures,  my  comfort, 
and  the  other  fellow's  only  as  it  doesn't  interfere 
with  mine — that  has  been  the  ugliness  in  my  nat- 
ure. I  have  not  been  ruthless,  but  only,  no  doubt, 
for  lack  of  opportunity.  My  sin  is  that  I  have  not 
worked  for  others,  only  for  myself.  Nationally,  it 
is  our  commerce,  our  industries,  our  prosperity,  and 
the  other  fellow's  only  as  it  doesn't  interfere.  We 
have  not  thought  and  felt  internationally  simply 
because  we  have  never  yet  really  thought  and  felt 
inter-socially.  For  almost  two  thousand  years  we 
have  mumbled  the  phrases  of  such  thought,  but  how 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         181 

feeble  the  results  in  real  thinking!  One  city  slum 
confutes  us.  The  question  is,  will  one  world  war 
awake  us? 

A  paradox  confronts  and  cheers  me.  There  was 
probably  never  a  time  in  the  world's  history  when 
more  men  were  ready  to  make  the  ultimate  sacrifice 
for  an  unselfish  ideal,  with  no  hint  of  hysteria,  but 
only  reasoned  conviction  in  their  attitude,  than  in 
America  to-day.  Taking  no  credit  away  from 
France  and  England,  yet  it  is  a  fact  that  French- 
men and  Englishmen  were  and  are  fighting  for  the 
physical  integrity  of  their  homes.  Perhaps  we  are, 
too,  but  so  long  as  the  mass  of  us  do  not  have  an 
emotional  realization  of  the  fact  it  is,  therefore,  prac- 
tically pure  idealism  behind  us.  We  have  struck 
the  pitch,  of  course,  in  a  moment  of  national  stress, 
when  " crowd  psychology"  plays  a  large  part;  there 
is  no  sense  of  denying  that.  Can  we  hold  the  pitch 
when  the  tension  is  relaxed?  Can  we  continue  to 
think  in  terms  of  the  not-ourselves,  can  we  continue 
to  realize  that  no  individual  happiness,  no  individ- 
ual attainment  of  the  beautiful,  no  national  pros- 
perity, even,  is  worth  much  in  the  sight  of  the  All 
Beautiful  unless  it  is  part  of  a  larger  world  happiness 
and  beauty?  If  we  can  send  an  army  of  three 
million  men,  animated  by  an  unselfish  ideal,  to 
fight  abroad,  cannot  we  mobilize  an  even  vaster 
army  of  men  and  women  with  an  unselfish  ideal  to 
fight  at  home,  to  put  the  community  above  the 
individual,  the  world  above  the  nation?  The  for- 
est seems  to  whisper  hope.  It  seems  to  say  that 
this,  my  so  beautiful  country,  has  above  all  others, 
perhaps,  the  mission  in  the  immediate  after-years 


i82  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

to  knit  the  nations  in  a  league  of  peace,  to  substi- 
tute another  rule  for  the  iron  rule  of  selfishness, 
which  is,  after  all,  the  greatest  foe  of  beauty,  the 
ugliest  thing  in  the  world. 

But  it  is  not  going  to  be  easy.  Human  selfish- 
ness, alas!  in  the  form  of  greed  has  not  always  been 
scotched,  even  under  the  stress  of  war.  Its  tremen- 
dous grip  on  the  world's  affairs  in  times  past,  how- 
ever, as  we  can  now  see  only  too  plainly,  has  been 
in  no  small  measure  due  to  the  lazy  selfishness  of 
myriads  of  good  people,  who  would  not  sacrifice 
their  own  comfort,  their  own  delightful  leisure  in 
their  ivory  towers  of  beauty,  or  whatever  equiva- 
lent they  possessed  for  such  an  architectural  retreat, 
to  fight  for  control  of  the  civic  machinery,  to  make 
what  they  knew  in  their  hearts  to  be  the  right  pre- 
vail. Those  times  must  pass.  We  must  descend 
from  our  mountain  cabins,  from  our  towers  of  ivory; 
we  must  come  out  of  our  gardens  and  up  from  our 
slums,  forgetting  our  beautiful  enjoyments,  or  our 
precarious  jobs  which  carry  no  attendant  enjoy- 
ments, and  remembering  only  the  ideal  of  beauty 
in  our  hearts,  the  ideal  of  beauty  which  means,  too, 
the  ideal  of  justice  and  mercy  and  peace  and  happi- 
ness for  each  and  all,  demand  of  what  rulers  we 
shall  find  that  they  give  over  to  us  the  machinery 
which  controls  our  destinies,  and  the  destinies  of 
all  our  fellows.  The  world  to-day  is  fighting  for 
democracy.  I  see  my  crime  to  have  been  that  I 
considered  democracy  a  condition  wherein  I  was 
let  alone,  not  wherein  I  was  an  active  participant 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year, 
fighting  to  write  my  best  personal  ideals  into  the 


FROM    A    BERKSHIRE    CABIN         183 

whole.  That,  I  believe,  has  been  the  crime  of  the 
entire  world,  and  in  this  sense  it  was  not  the  Kaiser 
who  made  the  war,  but  Goethe  and  Schumann  and 
Beethoven.  It  was  not  "secret  diplomacy,"  trade 
jealousy,  and  all  the  rest,  that  kept  the  nations 
apart,  straining  at  one  another's  throats;  it  was 
the  selfish  complaisance  of  all  the  people  who  had 
the  love  of  right  and  beauty  in  their  hearts — and 
locked  it  there  for  their  private  enjoyment.  The 
fight  for  democracy  is  only  just  beginning,  for  only 
now  are  we  beginning  to  comprehend  what  democ- 
racy means,  to  glimpse  the  depths  of  its  sacrifices, 
the  glory  of  its  creative  spirit,  the  beauty  of  oppor- 
tunity that  it  may  be  made  to  hold  for  common 
men.  Had  I  the  eloquence,  I  would  write  a  new 
manifesto,  and  its  slogan  would  not  be,  "Workers 
of  the  world,  unite!"  but,  "Lovers  of  beauty  in  the 
world,  unite!  and  capture  the  machinery  by  which 
we  have  been  ruled  in  ugliness  and  cruelty."  There 
would  be  no  need  of  a  union  of  the  workers,  then, 
for  we  should  all  be  workers  for  the  common  weal.  .  .  . 
The  sun  stands  high  over  the  still  tree-tops  now. 
The  wind  has  almost  died  away  in  a  noon  hush. 
Only  my  single  fern  frond  in  the  rock  cleft  beckons 
energetically  once  more,  as  if  it  were  a  sentient 
thing.  The  forest  seems  drowsing  in  its  loveliness, 
and  I  am  loath  to  leave  it,  to  descend  to  the  valley 
road,  to  dinner — to  the  Sunday  papers.  It  is  hard 
to  come  down  from  a  mountain  cabin,  from  an 
ivory  tower,  to  give  up  a  solitary  possession  or 
resign  a  comfortable  privilege!  If  I  owned  a  fac- 
tory would  I  consent  without  a  bitter  struggle  to 
industrial  democracy?  I  ask  myself  as  I  pass  the 


184 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS  

foxglove  plant  and  touch  its  trumpet  with  my  fin- 
gers. No — probably  not.  Undoubtedly  not,  I  de- 
cide as  I  reach  the  clearing.  By  the  time  I  set  foot 
on  the  road,  and  almost  immediately  am  forced  to 
dodge  a  powerful  touring-car  which  snapped  and 
coughed  like  the  rushing  symbol  of  wealth  and 
power,  nothing  seems  to  me  so  simple  as  it  did.  I 
want  once  more  the  consoling  whisper  of  my  breeze- 
touched  hemlocks.  Of  course,  we  shall,  we  must, 
put  aside  our  selfishness  and  take  our  soul's  best  into 
the  world's  affairs.  But  the  battle  is  still  long 
ahead,  the  vision  uncertain,  and  the  best  we  cling 
to  now  is  the  purity  and  elevation  of  our  motives 
in  the  immediate  war  at  hand.  That,  after  all,  is 
a  great  step  forward  in  the  sorry  story  of  men's 
strife  with  their  brothers. 

August,  1918. 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW 

YESTERDAY  (Washington's  Birthday)  there 
was  a  light  snowfall  of  three  inches,  cover- 
ing the  old  snow  which  was  packed  to  a 
crust,  and  the  bare  patches  exposed  by  the  recent 
February  thaw.  To-day  I  went  out  to  the  swamp 
woods  to  see  how  my  rabbit  was  faring,  knowing 
that  I  could  track  him  easily  in  this  telltale  new 
powder.  I  have  kept  a  desultory  eye  on  him  for 
two  months,  since  I  discovered  his  winter  lair  under 
an  old  pine  stump  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  and 
his  playground  close  by,  beneath  a  tent  of  swamp 
shrubbery  bent  over  by  the  weight  of  snow  to  form 
a  kind  of  arched  wicker  roof.  Cottontail  rabbits 
have  been  scarce  this  winter,  far  less  numerous  than 
for  several  years,  and  this  chap,  living  within  two 
hundred  feet  of  the  road,  interested  me  more  than 
he  ordinarily  would  have  done. 

When  I  reached  his  playground  to-day  the  new 
snow  was  so  covered  with  his  tracks  that  it  looked 
like  an  airplane  photograph  of  a  white  No  Man's 


1 86  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Land,  pock-marked  with  shell-holes.  Not  only  un- 
der the  bushes,  but  in  an  open  space  outside,  ten  feet 
across,  he  had  hopped  or  danced  round  and  about. 
But  his  former  lair  was  deserted — nature  had 
evicted  him.  It  had  been  the  neatest  little  winter 
quarters  you  ever  saw,  a  hole  scarcely  six  inches  in 
diameter  leading  beneath  a  root  and  in  under  the 
heart  of  the  old  stump,  the  entrance  half  hidden  by 
the  drooping,  snow-laden  branches  of  a  young  hem- 
lock that  had  sprouted  in  the  rotten  wood.  But 
the  recent  thaw  had  raised  the  water-level  of  the 
swamp,  and  now  the  hole  was  filled  solid  with  ice. 
Curious  to  see  what  he  had  done  about  it,  I  picked 
up  the  single  track  leading  away  from  the  play- 
ground (his  dance  last  night  had  quite  evidently 
been  a  solo),  and  followed  it.  I  could  also  dis- 
cover, thought  I,  what  he  had  eaten  since  last 
evening,  when  the  snow  stopped  falling. 

This  track  led  me  directly  toward  a  slight  rise  of 
forest  ground,  well  above  swamp-level.  Mr.  Rab- 
bit had  nosed  about  a  bit,  like  a  dog,  especially 
running  in  under  every  small  hemlock  which  roofed 
the  snow  with  its  low  branches,  and  there  squatting 
down.  But  nowhere  could  I  find  a  trace  that  he 
had  so  much  as  nibbled  a  shoot.  Even  back  in  his 
playground  not  a  twig  of  the  shrubbery  was  nibbled. 
After  a  short  distance  the  tracks  led  to  another 
stump,  less  picturesque  than  the  first,  but  better 
drained,  and  here  was  a  similar  hole.  Tracks  led 
both  in  and  out,  and  grayish  hairs  were  adhering  to 
the  root  under  which  he  had  to  squeeze  to  enter. 
I  poked  into  the  hole,  but  could  not  reach  the 
end,  as  it  speedily  took  a  sharp  curve.  So  I  se- 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW 


187 


lected  one  of  the  outgoing  tracks  at  random  and: 
followed  that. 

It  led  off  the  high  ground  to  the  swamp  ice  again, 
and  suddenly  there  was  another  track  beside  it,  or, 
rather,  on  it — the  track  of  a  fox.  As  neither  the 
rabbit's  step  nor  the  fox's  had  lengthened  into  a 


The  cottontail  rabbit  beneath  a  tent  of  swamp  shrubbery 


188 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

leap,  it  was  plain  that  the  fox  had  come  later.  I 
hurried  on,  intent  to  see,  if  I  could,  whether  the  fox 
had  caught  his  prey.  After  a  few  hundred  yards 
the  rabbit  had  reached  a  spot  where  there  were 
numerous  swamp -maple  seedlings  from  a  foot  to  six 
feet  high,  and  here  he  had  fed,  his  sharp  teeth  cut- 
ting off  the  tender  shoots  as  cleanly  as  a  pruning- 
knife.  Not  only  had  he  eaten  several  shoots  the 
preceding  night,  but  many  of  the  larger  'seedlings 
showed  the  scars  of  feedings  a  year  old,  or  even 
more,  some  trees  having  had  to  renew  their  leader 
from  a  lateral  branch.  Either  this  rabbit  or  his 
parents  had  long  used  this  spot  as  a  feeding-ground. 
The  cottontail  had  eaten  not  more  than  five  shoots 
for  his  meal,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  each  about  the 
thickness  of  a  fat  match,  and  probably  from  six  to 
fourteen  inches  long.  But  he  had  hopped  about  a 
good  deal  in  the  process,  and  made  several  excur- 
sions into  the  surrounding  swamp.  Perhaps,  as  a 
result  of  all  these  tracks,  the  fox  had  given  up  the 
scent  and  gone  off  after  an  easier  trail.  At  any 
rate,  he  had  gone  off,  and  my  friend  had  escaped  him 
for  one  more  night. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  about  rabbits  that  they  are 
plentiful  sometimes  for  several  seasons,  and  then, 
quite  suddenly,  greatly  diminish  in  number.  Some 
observers  declare  this  due  to  an  epidemic,  and  one 
game  warden  I  know  maintains  that  the  epidemic 
occurs  at  seven-year  intervals.  But  the  evidence 
for  any  such  sweeping  statement  is  scanty  and  in- 
conclusive. During  the  bitter  winter  of  1917-18, 
for  example,  the  presence  of  unusual  numbers  of 
goshawks  in  New  England  was  explained  by  the 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         189 

scarcity  of  rabbits  and  hares  in  the  North.  Yet  we 
had  few  rabbits  before  the  hawks  arrived.  It  seems 
difficult  to  believe  that  an  epidemic  could,  in  one 
season,  extend  from  Long  Island  Sound  to  Labrador. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  severe  winter  by  no  means 
necessarily  implies  a  dearth  of  rabbits.  During 
one  of  the  severest  winters  of  the  past  decade,  when 
the  snow  lay  three  feet  deep  from  December  I3th 
till  late  March,  I  not  only  found  the  well-beaten 
highroads  and  side-paths  of  innumerable  cotton- 
tails everywhere  in  our  woods,  but  the  snow-shoe 
rabbits,  or  varying  hares,  were  also  not  infrequent. 
When  spring  finally  came  that  year  the  hedgerow 
bushes  and  small  trees  in  remote  clearings  were  often 
ringed  five  or  six  feet  above  the  ground,  all  the  bark 
being  eaten  off.  The  constant  passage  of  the  rab- 
bits over  their  trails  kept  the  snow  packed,  so  they 
were  elevated  well  above  the  ground,  and  by  stand- 
ing on  their  hind  legs  they  could  feed  high.  The 
effect  was  odd  enough  when  the  snow  was  gone. 

Old  hunters  tell  me  that  hereabouts  in  Berkshire, 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  cottontail  rabbits  were 
few  in  number.  A  rabbit-hunt  meant  the  chase  of 
the  varying  hare,  so  called  because  his  winter  coat 
is  snow-white,  or  often  called  the  snow-shoe  rabbit 
because  of  the  odd,  elongated  print  of  his  big  hind 
feet.  The  varying  hare  is  much  larger  than  the 
cottontail,  and,  like  his  smaller  cousin,  subsists  on 
a  strictly  vegetable  diet,  including  bark  and  twigs, 
so  that  starvation  is  practically  impossible.  Just 
why  he  is  so  rapidly  disappearing,  and  the  cotton- 
tail, originally  a  more  Southern  species,  so  rapidly 
more  than  taking  his  place,  is  a  mystery.  Neither 


190  IN    BERKSHIREFIELDS 

species  can  offer  any  real  resistance  to  their  foes— 
the  great  horned  owls,  the  foxes,  wildcats,  hawks, 
and  weasels,  not  to  mention  dogs  and  men.  Speed 
is  their  only  recourse,  once  they  are  discovered. 
In  winter  the  varying  hare  escapes  detection  by 
his  white  coat,  if  there  is  snow  on  the  ground.  The 
cottontail,  on  the  other  hand,  plays  dead  in  the  face 
of  danger  almost  as  successfully.  I  have  known  a 
rabbit  in  my  garden  to  sit  motionless  between  two 
frost-browned  cauliflower  plants  till  the  dogs  were 
within  two  feet  of  him,  and  neither  the  dogs  nor  I 
noticed  him  till  he  jumped.  The  cottontail  has  one 
habit  to  his  advantage — he  burrows  in  winter  (al- 
ways by  himself,  so  far  as  I  have  observed) ,  while 
the  snow-shoe  lives  the  year  'round  under  no  better 
roof  than  a  low  evergreen  limb  or  tangle  of  briers. 
The  cottontail,  also,  takes  a  little  longer  and  better 
care  of  its  numerous  young.  I  have  seen  a  mother 
cottontail,  after  her  nest  in  the  grass  was  discovered, 
take  all  five  babies,  one  by  one,  in  her  mouth,  and 
hop  with  them  two  hundred  yards  away  into  a  safe 
thicket.  Observers  agree  that  the  varying  hare 
never  carries  anything  in  its  mouth. 

But,  for  all  that,  the  odds  against  the  larger 
species  do  not  seem  so  great  as  to  account  for  the 
fact  that  our  Colonial  ancestors,  by  rabbit  or  hare, 
meant  the  big  fellow,  and  most  of  us  to-day,  by 
rabbit,  mean  the  cottontail.  Indeed,  many  readers 
of  this  book  have  probably  never  seen  a  varying 
hare,  in  his  pure-white  coat,  crouched  beneath  his 
snow-laden,  fairy  roof  of  evergreen  boughs,  his  ears 
erect  and  listening  for  the  danger  signal.  They 
have  missed,  however,  one  of  the  prettiest  sights  in 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW 


191 


nature.  To-day,  in  the  western  Massachusetts 
hills,  we  annually  kill  more  wildcats  than  snow-shoe 
rabbits.  My  own  belief  is  that  temperament  rather 


STOKE 


A  varying  hare  under  his  snow-laden,  fairy  roof 

than  habit  is  the  explanation.  We  are  prone  to 
underestimate  the  part  temperament  plays  in  the 
life  of  animals,  in  spite  of  our  long  acquaintance 
with  dogs.  The  cottontail  does  not  mind  civiliza- 
tion. Mind  it?  He  likes  it!  Believe  me,  for  I 


192  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

know.  I  have  seen  all  my  raspberry  shoots  cut  off 
at  snow-line  and  my  young  apple-trees  girdled  by 
a  rabbit  which  lived  under  the  veranda  of  an  un- 
occupied cottage  on  the  place  in  winter  and  in  the 
grass  behind  the  garden  in  summer.  After  the 
summer  came,  however,  he  never  molested  the  gar- 
den. I  have  seen  him  hop  between  two  rows  of  young 
lettuce  to  eat  clover  in  the  lawn.  On  or  near  almost 
every  place  on  that  village  street  a  cottontail  lived, 
despite  the  dogs.  But  the  varying  hare  is  a  creat- 
ure of  the  deep  woods,  the  wild  pastures.  With  us, 
he  is  invariably  shot,  if  at  all,  well  up  the  moun- 
tains and  far  from  any  house  or  frequented  clearing. 
Something  in  his  make-up  prevented  him  from  tak- 
ing kindly  to  the  advent  of  ax  and  plow,  and  he 
appears  to  me  to  have  shrunk  just  as  our  area  of 
primeval  forest  has  shrunk.  He  has  paid  the  pen- 
alty for  not  being  temperamentally  adaptable. 

A  few  years  ago  some  unspeakable  person  in  New 
York  State  imported  several  European  hares,  which 
in  size  and  speed  resemble  the  jack-rabbit  of  our 
Western  states,  and  which  are  capable  of  becoming 
quite  as  much  of  a  pest — or  so  we  thought  during 
the  cold,  snowy  winter  of  1917-18.  By  that  time, 
these  hares,  which  all  our  farmers  called  jack-rab- 
bits, had  come  over  the  state  line  in  great  numbers, 
and  were  spreading  out  to  north  and  south  along 
the  eastern  base  of  the  Taconic  range.  Some  had 
penetrated  into  Connecticut,  but  only  a  stray  rab- 
bit or  two  crossed  to  the  east  side  of  the  Housatonic 
River.  During  that  winter  I  wrote  that  the  grey- 
hound would  soon  be  our  most  popular  dog,  after 
watching  one  of  them  leave  an  ordinary  dog  behind 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         193 

with  ridiculous  ease,  and  after  seeing,  of  a  morning, 
the  network  of  their  tracks  on  the  snow  and  the 
freshly  exposed  wood  of  young  pear-  or  apple-trees 
where  they  had  stood  on  their  long  hind  legs  and 
eaten  the  bark.  More  than  one  person,  that  winter, 
on  a  moonlight  night,  came  upon  little  groups  of 
these  hares  dancing  on  their  hind  legs,  and  every 
walk  in  the  woods  was  almost  sure  to  result  in  start- 
ing one  up  from  under  a  bush,  where  he  slept  till 
late  afternoon.  Even  when  summer  came,  I  often 
saw  their  long  brown  ears  sticking  up  in  a  young 
corn-field,  and  more  than  once  mistook  these  ears 
for  those  of  a  fawn. 

It  was  my  ambition  during  the  following  winter 
to  build  some  kind  of  a  blind,  by  an  open  space 
baited  with  apple  twigs,  where  I  could  watch  till  I 
had  seen  the  hares  dance,  for  during  the  first  winter 
of  the  invasion  I  didn't  have  the  luck  to  witness  this 
interesting  terpsichorean  spectacle,  and  those  who 
did  have  the  luck  all  testified  it  was  both  comical 
and  strange.  But  my  blind  was  never  built.  The 
hares,  during  the  following  winter  (an  exceptionally 
mild  one,  too),  practically  disappeared  from  our 
neighborhood.  None  of  us  has  been  able  abso- 
lutely to  verify  the  cause,  but  this  much  is  certain: 
early  in  the  winter  a  number  of  great  horned  owls 
appeared  —  or,  rather,  became  audible  —  on  the 
wooded  eastern  slopes  of  Mount  Everett,  at  the  base 
of  which  my  farm  lies,  and  over  which  the  rabbits 
roamed,  making  their  nightly  sallies  down  to  the 
orchards.  On  calm  evenings,  no  sooner  had  the 
sun  set  than  we  would  sometimes  hear  half  a  dozen 
owls,  along  the  shadowed  slopes,  hooting  mourn- 


i94  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

fully.  They  remained  in  numbers  till  February, 
and  one  or  two  even  into  March.  But  by  March 
sight  or  track  of  a  European  hare,  either  in  the 
woods  or  the  fields  and  orchards,  was  as  rare  as,  the 
winter  before,  it  had  been  common.  Apparently 
the  owls  cleaned  them  out,  which,  if  true,  is  another 
and  excellent  illustration  of  the  balance  which 
nature  maintains  if  left  with  a  free  hand.  Out 
West,  of  course,  the  jack-rabbits  have  become  the 
pest  they  have  to  no  small  extent  because  of  the 
extermination  of  the  coyotes. 

But  it  looks  now  as  if  I  should  never  see  the  moon- 
light dance  of  the  European  hare! 

It  is  sometimes  hard  to  think  of  the  rabbit  as  a 
rodent,  unless  you  find  one  of  your  young  apple- 
trees  ringed  by  him  above  snow-line,  and  ringed  by 
the  field-mice  at  ground-level!  He  is,  in  fact,  a 
sort  of  link  between  the  rodents'  and  a  different 
genus,  for  behind  his  two  large  gnawing  teeth  he 
still  has  two  smaller  ones,  useless  now  since  he  does 
not  eat  flesh,  and,  unlike  the  rodents,  his  fore  legs 
will  not  turn  inward,  so  he  cannot  use  the  paws  for 
hands,  as  a  mouse  or  squirrel  does.  He  employs 
them  only  abortively  when  reaching  up  to 
nibble,  or  when  he  has  to  stand  on  a  carrot  to  hold  it 
firm.  Yet  he  is  a  rodent,  belonging  to  the  great 
family  which  includes  squirrels,  rats,  mice,  porcu- 
pines, woodchucks,  gophers,  chipmunks,  spermo- 
philes,  shrews.  It  is  a  hardy  family,  on  the  whole,  so 
adaptable  and  prolific  that  the  rats  and  mice  alone 
are  said  to  comprise  twenty -five  per  cent,  of  all  our 
mammals.  It  is  a  family,  too,  which  hardly  de- 
serves its  ill  repute,  though  its  gnawing  habits  are 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW 


often  trying.  What  has  really  made  the  word 
rodent  repellent  is  the  representative  place  taken 
in  our  thoughts  by  the  Norway  rat  and  the 
common  house 
mouse  (both  in- 
troduced into 
America,  no 
doubt  uninten- 
tionally, by  the 
early  settlers) . 
A  woman  who 
squeals  at  a 
mouse  and  has 
a  genuine  hor- 
ror  of  a  rat 
will  feed  squir- 
rels by  the  hour 
in  the  park. 
Yet  all  three  are 
rodents,  and  if 
red  squirrels 
once  get  into  a 
house  by  gnaw- 
ing a  hole  under 
the  roof,  they 
can  be  far  more 
of  a  pest  than 
mice  or  rats,  and 
make  at  least 
ten  times  as 
much  noise. 

The  squirrels  are  an  interesting  and  numerous 
family,  from  the  familiar,  aggressive,  fearless,  quar- 


I 


The  familiar,  aggressive,  fearless,  quarrel- 
some red  squirrel 


196 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

relsome  red  of  our  Eastern  woods  and  the  big  gray 
who  now  largely  flourish  only  in  protected  regions, 
taking  kindly  to  parks  and  college  campuses,  to 
the  chipmunks  and  other  ground-squirrels,  with 
their  extensive  underground  burrows  and  hiber- 
nating habits.  Then,  too,  there  are  the  flying- 
squirrels  which  are  so  exclusively  nocturnal  in  habit 
that  dozens  of  them  may  live  in  the  familiar  woods 
without  the  ordinary  person  being  aware  of  it.  Our 
mountain-side  is  full  of  them,  yet  there  is  scarcely  a 
boy  in  town  who  has  ever  seen  one.  The  red  squir- 
rels can  be  a  great  pest.  For  seven  years  I  lived 
with  a  stand  of  pines  overhanging  my  sleeping- 
porch,  and,  just  beyond,  several  fine  apple-trees. 
The  red  squirrels  nested  far  up  in  the  pines,  in  two 
holes,  and  also  in  a  crotch  where  they  erected  a 
house  of  twigs  and  needles.  They  robbed  robins* 
nests,  both  eating  eggs  and  killing  young  birds, 
amid  a  tremendous  uproar  on  the  part  of  the  parent 
birds.  They  invaded  the  apple-trees  before  the 
fruit  was  quite  ripe,  nipped  off  apples,  which  fell 
to  the  ground,  and  then  ran  down  to  pick  them  up 
and  carry  them  off,  sometimes  showing  extraordi- 
nary strength  in  lifting  an  apple  which,  for  a  man, 
would  be  the  equivalent  of  a  barrel  of  apples,  and 
racing  up  a  pine-tree  with  it.  They  rose  very 
early,  and  began  to  chatter  at  daybreak.  They 
got  into  the  house  and  rolled  nuts  over  the 
attic  floor.  One  even  got  on  the  sleeping-porch 
while  my  wife  and  I  were  still  sleeping,  and  ate 
seven  large  holes  in  a  Navajo  blanket.  How- 
ever, he  paid  for  that  with  his  life!  The  red 
squirrel  is  a  hard  worker,  and  even  his  robbery  is 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         197 

a  part  of  his   normal  and   ceaseless   activities   in 
securing  or  storing  food. 

Much  of  this 'food,  especially  in  the  woods,  is 
not  stored  in  any  of  his  holes  (for  the  woodland 
red  squirrel  almost  always  has  at  least  two  holes, 
one  on  the  ground  under  a  root  or 'stump,  one  up  a 
tree — and  he  may  have  a  twig  nest  besides).  He 
will  collect  nuts,  pine  and  hemlock  cones,  seeds, 
and  the  like,  in  many  places,  sometimes  merely 
cacheing  the  collection  under  a  few  needles  on  the 
ground.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  traits  is  his 
unerring  instinct,  a  month,  two  months,  even  five 
months  later,  for  finding  these  stores  through  two 
feet  or  more  of  snow.  Again  and  again  in  the  woods 
I  have  seen  squirrel  tracks  on  the  snow,  with  no 
sign  of  digging,  and  then,  suddenly,  a  hole  right 
down  to  the  ground.  Near  by  will  be  the  signs 
of  his  feeding  around  some  stump,  where  he 
has  sat  to  shred  his  cone  for  the  toothsome  seeds. 
I  do  not  think  that  a  red  squirrel  ranges  very  far — 
relatively,  that  is.  He  comes  to  know  every  foot 
of  ground  and,  what  is  even  more  important,  every 
foot  of  branch  and  trunk  and  twig  in  his  section  of 
woods,  and  he  has  an  excellent  memory.  He  knows, 
for  instance,  just  what  slender  lateral  branch  will  lead 
him  to  a  safe  leap  into  the  next  tree,  and  the  quickest 
aerial  route  to  a  hole.  He  has  regular  arboreal  high- 
ways and  cross-alleys,  and  it  takes  a  lively  hawk  to 
catch  him.  He  is  strong,  active,  intelligent,  some- 
what unscrupulous,  but  tireless  in  industry,  and  he 
takes  thought  for  the  morrow.  That  is  sufficient  to 
explain  his  universal  survival  while  his  less  active  and 
provident  gray  cousin  has  diminished  in  numbers. 


i98  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

His  more  distant  cousin,  the  ground-squirrel  (in- 
cluding the  gay  little  chipmunk) ,  has  also  maintained 
itself.  Indeed,  anybody  who  has  ever  camped  in 
one  of  the  timber-line  parks  in  the  Rocky  Mountains 
knows  that  in  such  spots  the  ground-squirrel  is  the 
most  prominent  thing  in  the  landscape.  In  spite  of 
foes,  from  the  hawks,  foxes,  mink,  and  weasels  of 
the  East  to  the  grizzly  bears  of  the  West  (who  dig 
out  the  ground-squirrels  frequently),  these  gre- 
garious and  cheerful  little  fellows  manage  to  thrive. 
A  striped  chipmunk  running  on  and  under  and  over 
a  gray  New  England  stone  wall,  or  a  larger  Columbia 
River  ground-squirrel  in  the  high  Rockies  of  Mon- 
tana sitting  on  his  hind  legs  and  pressing  a  startled 
peep  out  of  his  stomach  with  his  front  paws,  is  a 
pretty  sight,  which  delights  all  sorts  of  people.  The 
ground-squirrels  live  in  burrows,  or  tunnels  well  un- 
derground, frequently  of  great  length.  A  chipmunk 
burrow  will  go  straight  down  three  feet,  then  run 
for  half  a  hundred  feet  under  the  surface,  with  sev- 
eral nest  chambers  lined  with  leaves,  and  one  or 
more  back  entrances.  Here  the  winter  food  is 
stored  and  the  winter  spent.  The  most  interesting 
feature  of  these  tunnels,  however,  is  not  their  ex- 
tent, but  the  fact  that  you  never  find  any  excavated 
earth  at  the  mouths.  A  great  quantity  must  be 
taken  out,  but  it  is  all  carried  away  by  the  squirrel 
presumably  in  his  (or  her)  cheek  pouches,  and  either 
scattered  on  the  grass  or  piled  at  some  distance, 
under  a  bush.  Yet  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  chip- 
munk carry  the  earth  thus,  nor  found  any  one  else 
who  has  seen  him  do  it.  Enos  Mills  tells  me  he  has 
only  seen  them  push  or  drag  out  the  dirt.  The  ani- 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         199 

mals  do  not  intend  to  give  away  their  entrance  holes 
to  the  eye  of  an  enemy,  any  more  than  possible,  at 


A  chipmunk  waiting  expectantly  for  breakfast 

any  rate.     This  trait  has  doubtless  aided  them  in 
their  survival  struggle. 

Still  another  survival  aid  has  been  their  communal 
spirit,  which  they  share  with  those  common  aquatic 
rodents,  the  muskrats  (called  mushrats  by  all  Yan- 


200  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

kee  small  boys,  I  never  knew  why).  The  approach 
of  danger  to  a  ground-squirrel  colony  or  a  com- 
munity of  chipmunks  is  heralded  by  the  alarmed 
peeps  and  squeaks  of  the  first  animal  to  spy  it,  and 
the  cry  is  taken  up  all  down  the  line.  I  have 
entered  a  Rocky  Mountain  meadow  and  heard  the 
little,  shrill,  warning  cheep-cheep  go  across  the  grass 
and  nodding  chalice  cups  like  a  spreading  fire,  while 
whisk,  whisk,  whisk  down  into  their  holes  scurried 
the  greenish-gray  bodies,  to  poke  black,  curious 
eyes  out  again  a  few  minutes  later.  Just  so  I  have 
seen  a  man  who  could  imitate  a  big  horned  owl  hoot 
at  the  edge  of  a  pond  at  night,  and  heard  the 
thwacks  of  muskrat  tails  on  the  water  go  receding 
up  the  edge  like  the  alarm-beat  of  policemen's 
clubs  on  the  curb,  and  the  splash  of  the  rats  as  they 
dove  to  safety. 

Yet  the  woodchuck,  that  largest  and  laziest  of 
common  rodents,  makes  no  effort  to  conceal  his 
burrow,  and,  like  the  grasshopper,  lays  up  nothing 
for  the  winter.  No,  that  isn't  true.  He  lays  up 
fat.  Perhaps  his  laziness,  his  indolent  if  watchful 
hours  of  sunning  on  the  pasture  rocks,  his  easy 
feeding  on  tender  grasses,  clovers,  and,  when  pos- 
sible, succulent  farm  vegetables  and  crops,  shows 
the  shrewdest  sense.  It  enables  him  to  sleep  the 
winter  through  without  eating.  Certainly  he  has 
survived.  It  is  not  true,  as  some  assert,  that  this 
sleep  is  unbroken  during  the  cold  winter,  for  many 
times,  before  Candlemas  Day,  I  have  found  holes 
with  a  packed  track  between  the  front  and  back 
entrance,  showing  the  chuck  has  been  out  more  than 
once  for  air.  But  I  have  never  found  tracks  leading 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         201 

away,  or  any  signs  that  the  animal  has  looked  for 
food.  It  proves,  however,  that  his  hibernation  is 
not  always  complete,  even  if  much  nearer  com- 


The  woodchuck  is  the  largest  and  laziest  of  common  rodents 

plete  than  that  of  the  chipmunk,  who  lays  up  a 
food-supply. 

On  the  same  day  that  I  followed  my  friend  the 


202 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

rabbit  last  winter  I  came  upon  the  record  of  a  noc- 
turnal tragedy  by  the  roadside.  On  one  side  of 
the  road  was  a  wire  fence,  with  wooden  posts,  and 
the  grass  beneath  had  been  cropped  close,  so  that 
the  snow  made  a  clean  carpet.  For  at  least  two 
hundred  yards  a  weasel  had  gone  along  under  the 
fence,  passing  one  post  to  the  north,  the  next  to  the 
south,  the  next  to  the  north,  with  the  regularity  of 
a  shuttle  in  a  loom.  Just  why  he  did  this  I  have  no 
idea,  unless  he  found  it  aided  him  in  keeping  close 
to  the  slight  protection  the  fence  afforded.  After 
following  him  some  distance  I  saw  a  field,  or  meadow, 
mouse  track,  which  came  across  the  road.  The 
mouse  was  headed  for  the  fence  where  the  weasel 
walked,  evidently  intending  to  pass  beneath  it. 
His  tracks  abruptly  ended  six  feet  short  of  the  wire. 
The  tracks  of  the  weasel  showed  why.  That  sav- 
age little  hunter  had  made  one  spring  and  landed 
on  the  mouse.  There  was  no  sign  of  blood,  but  it 
was  evident  that  the  weasel  had  carried  off  his  prey, 
deserting  the  wire  fence  and  cutting  across  a  corner 
of  the  field  to  a  hedgerow  of  tangled  briers  and  sap- 
lings. 

The  poor  field-mice  have  many  foes — owls,  hawks, 
crows,  cats,  even  foxes.  I  have  seen  a  barn  cat 
which  hunted  much  in  an  old  orchard  bring  in  half 
a  dozen  mice  daily  from  the  long  grass  under  the 
apple-trees.  These  short-tailed,  burrowing  mice, 
which  live  in  fields  and  meadows,  remain  abundant, 
however.  They  probably  do  a  great  deal  of  dam- 
age, in  the  aggregate,  eating  corn  and  grain  in  the 
shocks,  ringing  the  tender  bark  of  young  fruit-trees 
under  the  snow,  destroying  bulbs  in  the  ground, 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW 


203 


and  so  on.     Yet  they  have  their  good  side,  for  they 
must   consume   a   great   quantity   of   weed   seeds. 


The  short-tailed,  burrowing  mice  eat  corn  and  other  grain 
in  the  shock 

They  live  largely  in  that  small,  fairy  forest  of  the 
long  grass  and  the  weeds,  and  even  in  winter  they 


204  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

are  often  out  of  their  burrows  beneath  the  snow  to 
shake  down  the  seeds  from  upstanding  weed  stalks. 
The  snow  has  just  melted  from  one  of  my  pasture 
slopes,  a  pasture  which  was  not  cropped  last  season, 
and  the  ground  there  is  now  a  matted  tangle. of 
dead  grass  and  weed  stalks.  Looking  at  it  care- 
fully, I  find  that  everywhere  on  the  ground  are  the 
little  runways  of  the  mice,  about  an  inch  wide  and 
apparently  the  same  height,  to  judge  by  those 
places  where  the  animals  had  to  cut  them  through 
matted  grass  instead  of  snow.  When,  a  month  ago, 
that  pasture  looked  like  a  white  carpet  utterly  de- 
void of  life,  it  was  still  inhabited.  Under  the  snow 
the  mice  were  moving  about  freely,  in  their  long, 
branching  tunnels. 

The  white-footed  mouse,  also  called  wood-mouse 
and  deer-mouse,  belongs  to  the  long-tailed  division. 
He  has  a  longer  tail,  longer  legs,  longer  ears,  and, 
like  all  the  long-tailed  native  rats  and  mice,  does 
not  burrow.  Indeed,  in  habits  he  more  or  less 
resembles  the  squirrel,  making  his  nest  in  a  hollow 
root  or  log,  even  in  a  hole  some  way  up  a  tree,  or  an 
appropriated  bird's  nest.  He  is  the  most  attrac- 
tive of  all  the  large  family  of  rats  and  mice  (rats, 
by  the  way,  being  only  larger  mice,  and  in  no  way  a 
different  species).  Especially  in  winter,  the  deer- 
mouse  is  a  pretty  fellow,  for  then  his  fur  is  soft  and 
long,  snow-white  underneath,  fawn  color  on  top, 
and  he  has  big,  black,  timid,  friendly  eyes,  magnif- 
icent whiskers,  and  ears  not  unlike  a  Boston  ter- 
rier before  the  shears  have  been  applied.  He  lives 
largely  on  nuts,  berries,  seeds,  and  what  meat 
scraps  he  can  procure,  and  he  stores  food  for  the 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         205 

winter.  The  illustrator  of  this  book  can  testify 
to  the  fact  that  the  deer-mouse  stores  food,  for  once 
his  player-piano  refused  to  emit  the  strains  of  a 
Beethoven  sonata,  and  upon  investigation  he  dis- 
covered that  two  deer-mice  had  come  into  the  house 
(which  had  been  vacant  for  a  few  weeks),  made  a 
nest  inside  the  piano,  using  the  bellows  for  material, 
and  had  stored  therein,  also,  a  peck  of  hulled  chest- 
nuts. I  have  also  found  hulled  chestnuts  in  an  old 
stump,  with  deer-mice  tracks  about. 

Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  these  beautiful  little 
creatures  are  almost  entirely  nocturnal  and  so  not 
often  seen  by  the  average  person,  there  would  be 
far  less  popular  prejudice  against  the  whole  breed 
of  mice.  They  leap  gracefully  with  their  long  hind 
legs,  their  fur  and  color  are  beautiful,  their  big, 
timid  eyes  irresistibly  appealing,  their  big  ears  and 
whiskers  comic.  If,  in  our  winter  walks  in  the 
woods,  we  could  see  them  frisking  about  in  the 
fairy  forests  of  the  weeds,  or  dancing  in  an  open 
glade,  as  their  tracks  show  they  dance  at  night, 
like  the  rabbits,  the  poets  would  have  celebrated 
them,  and  their  features  would  be  familiar  to  all 
Americans.  But  alas!  our  poets  do  not  haunt  the 
frozen  thickets  of  the  forest  when  a  midnight  moon 
is  shining  coldly  down,  and  the  beautiful  little  deer- 
mice  lack  their  laureate. 

The  muskrat  and  the  beaver,  the  aquatic  rodents, 
roughly  correspond  to  the  cottontail  and  the  snow- 
shoe  rabbit,  for  the  smaller,  less  attractive  species 
has  proved  temperamentally  adaptable  to  civiliza- 
tion, and  builds  his  winter  nests  in  the  river  swales 
within  a  stone's-throw  of  our  villages,  while  the 


2o6  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

beaver  disappears  before  the  march  of  man.  Of 
course,  a  beaver  colony  demands  a  considerably 
larger  body  of  water,  with  a  higher  water-level,  and 
much  more  food.  The  beavers  must  have  their  apl- 
joining  stand  of  willow  and  aspen  shoots,  or  other 
succulent  bark.  But  the  fact  remains  that  these 
most  social  of  animals,  with  their  highly  developed 
communal  activities,  their  engineering  genius,  their 
capacity  for  self-government  and  leadership,  take 
unkindly  to  man  and  all  his  ways,  and  all  that  is 
left  of  them  in  great  sections  of  America  are  the  open 
meadows  by  some  forest  brook  that  was  once  the 
site  of  a  beaver-pond.  On  the  other  hand,  I  can 
take  you  to  twenty  muskrat-huts  in  the  course  of  an 
afternoon's  stroll,  and  by  making  a  hole  in  the  sods 
and  cattail  stalks  which  compose  the  domelike  roof, 
show  you  the  air-chamber  above  the  winter  water- 
line,  and  the  passage  down  into  the  basement  water- 
chamber,  which,  in  turn,  leads  out  under  the  water 
and  ice  to  the  feeding-grounds  and  the  burrows  in 
the  banks.  I  have  often  wondered  why  the  musk- 
rats  come  out  of  their  ponds  or  streams  or  swamps 
in  winter  and  go  awandering.  They  certainly  can 
find  little  to  eat  above  the  snow.  Yet  I  have  met 
them  occasionally  a  considerable  distance  from 
water,  in  full  daylight.  Perhaps  they  were  seeking 
some  other  pond  where  there  would  be  a  fresh 
supply  of  flag  roots.  I  well  remember  meeting  one 
big  fellow  on  our  golf-course,  walking  over  two  feet 
of  snow.  The  dogs  went  for  him,  but  got  nipped 
on  the  noses,  whereupon  they  withdrew  a  few  feet, 
barking  angrily.  My  companion  stepped  up  and 
poked  the  furry  little  fellow  with  his  snow-shoe, 


The  porcupine  is  armored  against  all  enemies 


208 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

whereat  the  rat,  with  a  squeal  of  rage,  made  a 
spring  right  over  the  shoe,  and  set  his  long, 
sharp  teeth  through  moccasin  and  two  pairs  of 
woolen  socks,  into  his  tormentor's  little  toe,  where 
he  hung  fast  as  a  bulldog,  while  the  tormentor  be- 
came the  tormented,  and  began  to  hop  wildly  on  one 
foot,  kicking  with  the  other.  As  soon  as  I  could 
stop  laughing  sufficiently  I  pulled  the  rat  off  by  the 
tail,  and  we  let  him  go,  the  dogs  in  full  pursuit. 
He  made  for  the  river,  found  a  small  hole  between 
the  bank  and  the  ice,  and  vanished.  Of  course, 
man  is  the  great  foe  of  the  muskrat  nowadays,  with 
his  traps.  The  pelts  are  bringing  undreamed-of 
prices  to-day,  and  if  the  present  scale  is  kept  up 
the  muskrat  can  hardly  survive  without  protection. 
Nothing  can  survive  the  unrestrained  greed  of  man. 
A  single  fur  establishment  in  New  York  advertised 
the  other  day  over  300,000  muskrat-skins. 

The  least  attractive,  as  well  as  one  of  the  largest 
of  rodents,  and  the  one  whose  gnawing  capacity 
can  be  the  most  destructive,  is  the  porcupine. 
The  porcupine,  as  everybody  knows,  is  armored 
well  against  all  enemies.  His  quills,  normally  lying 
backward  with  the  hair,  can  be  erected  by  muscular 
action  of  the  skin,  and  only  the  craftiest  hunters 
can  get  to  his  comparatively  unprotected  throat. 
Moreover,  those  sharp  quills  come  out  easily  from 
his  skin,  but  with  the  utmost  difficulty  from  the 
skin  of  any  animal  they  have  penetrated,  for  they 
are  pointed  with  tiny  barbs.  I  have  seen  a  dog  come 
down  one  of  our  mountains  with  his  face  and  chest 
stuck  full;  and  he  had  to  be  killed  to  end  his  misery, 
for  the  quills  had  worked  inward.  Yet  the  porcu- 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         209 

pine  is  decreasing  in  our  Eastern  woods.  It  has 
been  several  years  since  one  was  reported  in  our 
county,  for  example.  We  still  have  plentiful  for- 
ests for  them  to  feed  in  (they  laboriously  climb 
trees  and  eat  the  bark,  twigs,  and  even  foliage), 
though  our  supply  of  long  hollow  logs  to  nest  in  may 
be  fewer.  Yet  the  'coons  and  wildcats  continue  to 
flourish,  and  they  are  much  more  hunted  than  the 
porcupine  ever  was. 

In  the  wilder  parts  of  the  country,  however — in 
the  Michigan  woods,  for  example,  or  the  Rocky 
Mountains — they  are  still  numerous,  and  woe  to  the 
campers  who  leave  an  ax-handle  or  saddle-girth  un- 
protected at  night!  Once,  in  Montana,  we  lost  an 
ax-handle,  a  halter  rope,  and  the  sleeve  of  a  woolen 
sweater,  in  a  single  night.  I  was  waked  the  next 
morning  by  the  sound  made  by  the  cook  in  killing 
the  porcupine  with  what  was  left  of  the  ax.  These 
beasts  will  gnaw  anything  made  the  least  saline  by 
contact  with  perspiration.  A  Michigan  lumberman 
told  me  that  an  approved  method  of  revenge  in  his 
neck  of  the  woods  was  to  sprinkle  salt  on  the  roof  of 
your  enemy's  cabin,  if  possible  the  night  before  a 
rain!  He  said  he  had  seen  the  porcupines  eat  an 
entire  roof  so  treated  full  of  holes  in  one  night,  to 
the  great  discomfort  of  the  occupant  of  the  cabin. 
Having  camped  in  porcupine-infested  timber,  I 
can  readily  believe  it.  Probably  nobody  seriously 
regrets  the  diminishing  range  of  these  rodents. 
They  appear  to  serve  no  useful  purpose,  as  their 
feeding  is  almost  entirely  destructive,  even  when  it 
is  confined  to  trees  and  shrubs. 

A  correspondent  in  Manchester,  Vermont,  how- 


210  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

ever,  Mr.  Walter  R.  Hard,  writing  about  the  por- 
cupines in  that  region,  where  they  were  once  nu- 
merous, but  are  now  confined  to  the  main  ridge  of  the 
Green  Mountains,  insists  that  they  can  be  attrac- 
tive. He  caught  one  at  his  camp  and  tied  it  to  the 
flag-pole,  ultimately  releasing  it  with  two  feet  of 
cord  still  attached  to  its  hind  leg.  This  cord  got 
tangled  in  a  bush,  and  the  porcupine  was  brought 
back  and  told  to  go  up  the  pole  and  kiss  the  flag; 
' '  Which, ' '  says  Mr.  Hard,  ' '  he  did !  He  climbed  to 
the  top,  reached  out  and  got  the  flag  and  tried  to 
cover  himself  with  it.  While  I  had  my  back  turned 
for  a  few  moments  he  came  down  and  disappeared. 
As  he  hung  on  the  pole  and  watched  us,  I  found  his 
face  really  quite  attractive. "  Mr.  Hard  also  records 
that  on  a  winter  trip  he  found  the  body  of  a  porcu- 
pine with  the  entire  belly  scraped  out,  and  wild- 
cat tracks  all  around  it.  The  old-time  hunters  also 
affirm  that  the  cat  is  its  only  serious  wild  enemy 
here,  as  the  martin  is  in  other  regions.  ... 

To-day  is  the  I4th  of  March.  We  had  a  snow- 
storm last  night,  and  there  are  six  inches  of  new 
snow  on  the  ground.  I  have  just  been  out  across 
the  broad,  white  river  meadows.  There  was  no 
hint  of  spring  in  the  air  or  in  the  prospect.  The 
meadows  were  utterly  deserted  and  clothed  with 
winter.  The  trees  were  bare.  Not  a  bird  was 
visible.  But  suddenly  I  came  on  a  curious  track  in 
the  snow — a  double  track,  the  right  and  left  foot- 
prints two  inches  or  more  apart,  with  the  snow 
brushed  by  the  belly  between.  A  woodchuck! 
He  had  seen  his  shadow  on  Candlemas  Day,  and  so 
was  supposed  to  stay  in  for  six  weeks  more.  Well, 


LITTLE    FOLKS    THAT    GNAW         211 

it  was  forty  days.  He  was  living  up  pretty  well  to 
the  hallowed  traditions!  I  followed  him.  One — • 
two — three  times  he  had  started  digging,  but  each 
time  evidently  found  the  ground  frozen  too  hard. 
From  the  third  attempt  the  tracks  led  around  a 
little  slope  to  the  south  side,  and  there,  on  the  white 
snow,  was  a  pile  of  fresh,  yellow  earth.  Seventy- 
five  feet  away  was  another  pile,  even  larger,  and 
under  it  a  mound,  evidently  the  earth  dug  out  the 
year  before.  Between  these  two  holes,  the  two  ends 
of  his  tunnel,  was  a  third  hole,  with  no  fresh  earth, 
and  on  the  snow  a  yellowed  track  where  he  had 
passed  back  and  forth  with  his  muddy  paws  and 
belly  fur.  As  there  were  no  tracks  leading  away 
except  on  the  circuit  I  had  followed,  it  was  plain 
he  had  been  hibernating  in  this  burrow,  had  come 
out  to-day  and  tried  the  ground  to  see  if  he  could 
start  a  new  one,  found  he  couldn't,  and  returned  to 
his  old  quarters,  which  he  proceeded  to  renovate. 
It  was  a  species  of  spring  house-cleaning. 

Spring  house-cleaning !  I  looked  across  the  snowy 
meadows  to  the  white  walls  of  the  mountains  and 
felt  the  biting  March  wind  blowing  from  a  chill, 
watery,  leaden  east,  with  no  hint  of  a  sunset  glow  in 
the  leaden  west.  Then  I  looked  down  at  the  pile 
of  fresh  earth  below  the  woodchuck's  hole,  and 
hoped  that  the  little  optimist  was  a  true  prophet. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  enlivened  my  walk  for  me  and 
sent  me  home  in  better  spirits. 


THE    WAYS    OF    THE    WOODCHUCK  f 

THE  piece  was  entitled,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
''Webster's  First  Case,"  and  it  was  in  the 
Fourth  Reader — or  maybe  the  Fifth.  Any- 
way, there  was  a  picture  showing  the  young  Daniel 
making  an  eloquent  gesture  in  front  of  his  father, 
while  brother  Ezekiel  stood  by  with  a  woodchuck  in  a 
trap.  "  Zeke,"  it  seems,  had  caught  the  chuck  (which 
was  a  highly  commendable  thing  to  do  according  to 
New  England  standards) ,  and  was  about  to  put  it  to 
death  when  Daniel  took  pity  upon  its  dumb  helpless- 
ness and  appealed  for  its  life.  Father  Webster  was 
called  in  as  judge,  and  he  was  so  moved  by  the  future 
Senator's  pleading  that  he  finally  exclaimed,  "Zeke, 
Zeke,  you  let  that  woodchuck  go!" 

I  don't  know  if  this  story  is  included  in  the 
Readers  any  more;  probably  not.  But  in  my  boy- 
hood it  made  a  great  impression.  It  was  far  easier, 
in  fact,  to  appreciate  the  eloquence  which  could  per- 
suade a  Yankee  farmer  to  spare  a  woodchuck 
than  to  appreciate  the  eloquence  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
oration  as  declaimed  by  Wesley  Sanborn!  There 
wasn't  a  youngster  of  us  but  hunted  woodchucks, 
and  those  who  lived  on  farms  did  it  as  a  regular  part 
of  the  chores — the  only  really  enjoyable  part.  We 
all  were  familiar  with  the  habits  of  this  rodent;  we 
knew  his  powers  for  destruction;  we  had  been 
brought  up  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy  of  agricult- 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  213 

ure  and  a  proper  subject  for  extermination.  Not 
one  of  us  could  have  persuaded  his  father  to  spare  a 
chuck.  So  that  story,  above  all  others,  prepared  our 
minds  for  a  just  appreciation  of  Webster's  genius. 

Times  have  changed  now,  and  Readers  with  them. 
The  story  of  Webster's  first  case  has  no  doubt  gone 
the  way  of  "Kentucky  Belle"  and  the  rest  of  the 
Civil  War  ballads.  But  the  woodchuck  hasn't 
changed  a  bit,  neither  has  he  been  exterminated. 
He  still  burrows  in  field  and  pasture  and  wood,  he 
still  suns  himself  on  a  stump  in  the  clearing,  he  still 
eats  the  hearts  from  the  farmers'  cabbages,  and 
he  still  comes  out  of  his  hole  on  Candlemas  Day  to 
look  at  his  shadow  and  make  an  annual  "weather 
story"  for  the  urban  newspapers — as  "Mr.  Wood- 
chuck"  in  most  journals,  as  "Mr.  Ground-hog" 
in  those  published  in  New  York,  where  blueberries 
are  called  huckleberries,  and  doughnuts  crullers. 
"Mr.  Ground-hog  came  out  of  his  hole  this  morning 
and  saw  his  shadow,  so  we  are  in  for  six  weeks  more 
of  winter,"  says  the  afternoon  paper  on  February  2d. 
You  have  an  odd  vision  of  a  dirty,  black  muzzle 
nosing  up  in  front  of  the  City  Hall  and  taking  a 
squint  at  the  Woolworth  Tower.  And  then  you 
smile — smile  to  think  how  this  humble  rodent  of 
our  fields,  and  this  homely  superstition  about  him 
which  grew  up  in  our  pioneer  country,  have  power 
to  persist  and  get  talked  about  on  the  front  pages 
of  our  newspapers  in  our  busiest  cities,  and  in  brazen 
defiance  of  our  scientific  weather  bureau.  Surely, 
"Mr.  Ground-hog"  has  not  been  forgotten.  He  is 
our  surest  reminder  of  those  early  days  when  Amer- 
ica was  a  land  of  agricultural  pioneers. 


214  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Just  as  the  potato-bug  was  a  North  American 
native  which  didn't  originally  live  on  the  potato- 
vine  >  so  the  woodchuck  was  a  native  mammal 
which  didn't  burrow  in  pastures,  orchards,  and  gar- 
dens, and  live  on  vegetables,  but  in  the  glades,  or 
even  the  depths  of  the  forest,  where  he  lived  on  a 
less  succulent  diet.  Here  the  early  settlers  found 
him,  and  named  him  woodchuck,  the  chuck  being, 
it  is  said,  a  Devonshire  term  for  little  pig.  How 
long  it  was  before  the  woodchuck  found,  in  turn,  the 
gardens  of  the  early  settlers  is  not  recorded,  but 
judging  from  his  present-day  fearlessness  even  in  the 
face  of  the  most  persistent  persecution,  it  could  not 
have  been  long  before  he  began  to  tunnel  in  the 
clearings  and  to  eat  the  vegetables  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  taxing  their  patience  and  putting  to  a 
severe  test  their  rigid  restrictions  on  denunciatory 
expletives.  And  the  woodchuck  has-  been  with  us 
ever  since,  and  ever  since  he  has  been  putting  the 
patience  of  men  to  the  trial. 

The  woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax) — known  also 
as  the  ground-hog,  and  less  frequently  as  the  Mary- 
land marmot — is  a  heavy,  thickset,  short-legged 
animal,  which  grows  to  a  full  length  of  about  two 
feet.  In  color  it  is  a  grizzly  yellow,  varied  with 
black  and  rust.  It  has  black  feet,  the  furry  hair 
stopping  short  at  the  wrists  like  the  sleeves  of  a 
jersey,  and  a  rather  short,  bushy  tail.  It  ranges 
from  New  England  to  Georgia,  and  westward  to 
North  Dakota,  and  it  has  cousins  cf  the  marmot 
family  in  the  colder  North  and  in  various  parts  of 
the  West.  Its  best-known  characteristic,  of  course, 
is  its  burrowing  propensity  and  its  long,  winter 


THE    WAYS    OF    THE    WOODCHUCK2I5 

hibernation.  If  the  author  of  Alice  in  Wonderland 
had  been  an  American,  the  sleepy  Dormouse  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  a  woodchuck.  "It  stuffs 


Sitting  on  his  haunches  in  a  field  of  daisies 

on  vegetables  all  summer,  and  sleeps  all  winter  " — 
that  might  be  a  summary  of  what  a  great  many 
people  know  about  the  woodchuck.  But,  like  most 
summaries,  it  would  do  him  a  grave  injustice.  As 


216  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  well  worth  studying  more 
closely,  and  a  closer  study  will  show  that  he  isn't 
half  such  a  fool  as  he  looks  sometimes  when  you  see 
him  sitting  on  his  haunches  in  a  field  of  daisies  and 
clover,  or  curled  up  in  a  lazy  ball  in  the  sun. 

In  the  first  place,  the  chuck  is  a  good  fighter,  con- 
sidering his  waddling  build  and  his  avoirdupois,  and 
while  he  usually  fights  on  the  defensive,  standing 
off  his  foe  till  he  can  get  back  to  his  burrow,  he 
often  shows  a  generalship  in  retreat  that  would  do 
credit  to  Sir  John  French.  When  he  cannot  get 
back,  he  stands  right  up  and  makes  a  brave  scrap 
of  it,  like  his  much  smaller  distant  cousin,  the 
muskrat.  I  have  seen  an  adult  fox-terrier  corner  a 
woodchuck  against  a  steep  bank  where  there  was 
no  escape,  and  fight  for  a  full  hour  before  he  killed 
it.  The  terrier  looked  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  a  pot 
of  red  paint  when  the  battle  was  over.  A  larger 
dog,  of  course,  makes  quicker  work  of  it;  but  even 
the  larger  dogs,  when  once  they  are  wary,  respect 
this  apparent  ball  of  waddling  fat,  with  teeth  like 
chisels  hidden  in  its  black  muzzle,  and  close  in  on  it 
by  a  spring  from  above,  if  possible.  Wise  chuck 
dogs  have  been  known  to  hunt  in  couples— one  in 
the  open,  keeping  the  prey's  attention  fixed,  while 
the  second  sneaks  in  from  behind  and  does  the  actual 
killing. 

Against  a  large  dog,  of  course,  the  poor  chuck  has 
little  show,  but  often  with  half  a  chance  to  get  back 
to  his  hole  he  can  stand  off  a  small  dog  and  make 
good  his  retreat.  His  method  is  simple  and  is 
based  on  the  fact  that  the  dog's  instinct  is  to  circle, 
like  a  boxer  sparring  for  an  opening.  When  the 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  217 

dog  is  between  him  and  his  hole  the  chuck  bares 
his  teeth  with  a  squeaky  snarl  and  lunges  at  his 
antagonist.  When  the  dog  is  on  the  off-side,  he 
backs  away  toward  his  hole  just  as  far  and  as  fast 
as  he  can,  but  never  ceasing  to  face  the  dog.  In 
this  way  the  chuck  will  progress,  by  alternate 
rushes  and  backings,  till  suddenly  the  surprised 
terrier  sees  his  foe  disappear  into  the  yellow  earth, 
and  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  follow  results  in  a 
sorely  nipped  nose.  Woodchucks  will  also  go  up 
a  tree  to  escape  a  dog,  if  the  occasion  offers.  A 
small  tree,  with  thick,  low  branches,  is  within  their 
capacity  to  climb,  and  they  will  climb  it  for  ten 
feet  if  sufficiently  hard  pressed. 

It  may  be  that  some  of  their  ability  to  fight  comes 
from  practice  in  mating-time,  as  well  as  from  their 
rodent  instincts.  The  woodchucks  mate  early  in 
the  spring,  and  battles  between  males  are  frequent, 
if  we  may  judge  from  the  squeaks  and  angry  sounds 
which  come  across  the  fields  from  the  vicinity  of 
their  burrows.  These  battles  last  until  the  unsuc- 
cessful rival  is  driven  out  of  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood. Following  such  squeals  once,  we  crested  a 
slight  ridge  in  the  pasture,  and  saw  one  chuck  pur- 
suing another  down  the  slope  toward  the  river-bank. 
The  victor  stopped,  apparently  satisfied,  when  his 
rival  went  over  the  edge,  and  started  to  return.  Then 
he  suddenly  spied  us,  and  also  the  young  collie  with 
us.  We  were  by  this  time  walking  toward  him,  so 
he  flattened  out  on  the  ground  and  played  dead. 
The  pup  went  up  to  investigate.  Being  a  young, 
trustful,  innocent  pup,  without  knowledge  of  evil, 
he  put  down  his  muzzle  to  smell,  and  lifted  it  again 


2i8  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

instantly  with  a  sharp  yip  of  pain.  But,  being  a 
collie,  he  maintained  his  dignity.  He  immediately 
became  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  tree  on 
the  river-bank,  toward  which  he  moved  sedately,  as 
if  that  had  been  his  objective  all  the  while.  He  paid, 
no  further  attention  to  the  woodchuck. 

But  we  did.  We  drew  close,  and  the  chuck  rose 
on  his  toes,  with  back  slightly  arched  like  a  cat,  and 
with  hair  and  tail  bristling,  too.  He  bared  his  teeth 
and  made  an  angry,  snarling  sound — and  then  sud- 
denly bolted  forward  in  a  bee-line  for  the  female  in 
our  party.  She  forgot  everything  but  first  principles, 
screamed  and  ran.  The  chuck  passed  over  the  exact 
spot  where  she  had  stood,  went  on  several  rods,  and 
disappeared  down  a  hole  under  a  stone.  Evidently  he 
knew  women ;  he  expected  her  to  get  out  of  the  way ! 

We  now  investigated  the  defeated  rival,  who  had 
disappeared  over  the  river-bank,  which  was  at  this 
point  a  sharp  escarpment  of  clay  loam,  perpendic- 
ular at  the  top  and  sloping  a  little  six  feet  below  at 
water-line.  Sure  enough,  beneath  the  overhang  of 
grass,  squatted  cowering  on  the  mud,  was  the  other 
woodchuck,  looking  up  at  us  with  bright,  terrified 
eyes  as  we  lowered  a  stick  to  poke  him  into  the 
water.  He  was  evidently  extremely  loath  to  take 
to  the  stream,  but  the  stick  was  insistent,  and  after 
futilely  snapping  at  it  several  times,  once  getting 
such  a  grip  that  he  almost  pulled  it  out  of  our  hands, 
he  finally  fell  into  the  water,  where  he  turned  tail  to 
the  shore  and  swam  rapidly  to  the  other  side,  climbed 
out,  shook  himself,  scrambled  up  the  bank,  and  ran 
clumsily,  but  swiftly,  away  in  the  grass. 

The  woodchuck  shows  strategy,  too,  not  only  in 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  219 

his  fighting,  but  in  the  construction  of  his  defensive 
works,  his  burrow.    If  you  will  take  careful  note  next 
summer,  on  your  walks,  of  all  the  woodchuck-holes 
you    come    across,    you     will   •• 
probably  be  surprised  to  find 
in  how  many  cases  the  animal 
can  secure  an  outlook  of  con- 
siderable radius  either  from  the 
mouth  of  the  hole  or  a  point 
conveniently  near  it.     It  may 
be  in  the  open  pasture,  when 
it  is  more  likely  to   be  on  a 
slope  than  in  a  hollow,  thus  se- 
curing both  outlook  and  better 
drainage.     It  may  be   among 

rocks,  but  within  easy  distance       His  burrow  usually 
r  n        -,  .  !  -,        commands  a  wide  pros- 

of  some  peak  which  commands  pect 
a  prospect.  It  may  be  in  the 
woods,  in  or  under  a  fallen  log,  but  the  chuck  can 
climb  the  log  to  look  about.  It  may  be  among 
the  scrub  growth  by  an  old  stone  wall,  and  you 
will  say,  "  Ha!  here  is  an  exception!"  But  do  not 
be  too  hasty.  Some  day,  passing  the  spot,  you  will 
see  a  shrewd  face  and  a  fat  body  up  on  the  wall. 
The  woodchuck  "digs  in"  like  a  modern  army. 
But,  like  an  army,  he  also  puts  his  trenches  where 
they  can  command  the  approaches. 

Any  boy  who  has  skinned  a  woodchuck  has  been 
impressed  by  the  thickness  and  toughness  of  the 
hide  over  the  head  and  neck,  and  in  the  shoulders. 
This  thickness,  I  suppose,  has  been  developed  by 
its  habits  of  burrowing,  and  is  due  in  no  small  meas- 
ure to  the  fact  that  an  animal  which  makes  a  tunnel 


220 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

in  the  earth  does  not  remove  all  the  material  by 
any  means,  but  rather  pounds  or  pushes  it  against 
the  sides,  thus  in  one  operation  both  enlarging  the 
bore  and  firming  the  walls.  If  you  will  note  a 
woodchuck  burrow  in  rocky,  packed  soil,  and  one 
in  a  loose,  sandy  loam,  you  will  find  that  the  earth 
pile  at  the  entrance  is  almost  invariably  larger  in 
the  former  case,  while  in  the  latter  it  is  sometimes 
hardly  noticeable,  there  being  only  a  hole  into  the 
earth. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  dispute,  and  considerable 
conflict  of  evidence,  regarding  the  attitude  of  the 
mother  woodchuck  toward  her  young.  It  is  gener- 
ally stated  that  she  turns  them  out  at  a  very  early 
age  into  a  cruel  world,  to  forage  for  themselves; 
there  are  even  stories  recorded  of  mother  chucks 
who  pushed  up  their  young,  one  by  one,  to  the 
mouth  of  a  burrow  to  appease  the  dogs  who  were 
trying  to  dig  a  way  in.  This  is  certainly  a  repre- 
hensible line  of  conduct,  but,  fortunately,  there  are 
compensating  records  of  maternal  devotion.  My 
most  recent  record  is  the  testimony  of  a  Yankee 
farm  boy  who  is  a  mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord 
(and  behind  His  back  as  well,  for  he  hunts  on  Sun- 
day) .  Using  nothing  but  rusty  traps  which  he  never 
touches  with  his  bare  hands,  he  has  covered  the 
outer  wall  of  his  father's  barn  with  skins  nailed  up 
to  dry,  the  biggest  always  eliciting  from  visitors  the 
comment,  "That  must  'a'  bin  a  hefty  one!"  Fred 
says  that  the  other  day  he  caught  a  baby  chuck  in 
one  of  his  traps,  and  when  he  came  up  to  the  hole, 
on  his  regular  tour  of  inspection,  the  mother  was 
trying  to  get  the  little  fellow  out,  and  she  refused  to 


You  will  see  a  shrewd  face  and  fat  body  up  on  the  wall 


2  sBER'K SHIRE    FIELDS 

desist  even  when  he  was  within  striking  distance. 
He  could  have  killed  her  with  a  stick,  he  says,  from 
which  I  infer  that  he  had  no  stick,  for  it  would  require 
the  combined  eloquence  of  Daniel  Webster,  Demps- 
thenes,  and  William  Jennings  Bryan  to  persuade 
Fred  to  spare  a  woodchuck! 

When  the  baby  chucks  are  no  bigger  than  rats 
they  go  out  from  the  burrow  and  will  often  scatter 
to  a  considerable  distance,  either  feeding  or  sunning 
themselves  in  little  balls.  That  is  the  time  to  catch 
them.  The  mother,  on  the  approach  of  danger, 
rushes  to  the  hole  and  emits  a  shrill  squeal  like  a 
whistle— a  sound  closely  resembling  that  of  the 
whistling  marmot.  Then  the  little  balls  unwind 
and  come  scurrying  home.  Your  object  is  to  get 
to  the  hole  first  and  bag  them  as  they  rush  by.  In 
my  woodchuck-hunting  days  there  was  sometimes 
a  boy  who  could  imitate  the  mother's  whistle,  just 
as  there  was  sometimes  a  boy  or  man  who  could 
call  the  quail  up  to  him.  This  boy  invariably  had 
a  box  in  his  back  yard  in  spring,  full  of  young  chucks, 
for  the  superstition  never  died  that  the  "Bird  and 
Pet  Store"  would  buy  them  for  twenty-five  cents 
apiece,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  never  did.  To 
catch  them  he  would  crawl  stealthily  to  a  spot  be- 
hind and  over  the  entrance  to  the  burrow,  and  wait 
patiently  till  the  entire  family  were  off  feeding. 
Then  he  would  whistle,  and  as  the  young  came 
scampering  for  the  hole  (regardless  of  the  fact  that 
the  mother  had,  perhaps,  been  feeding  beside  them), 
he  would  capture  one  or  two  with  his  bare  hands 
before  they  could  escape  into  the  ground.  Once 
two  boys  I  knew  collected  thirty  young  chucks, 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  223 

mostly  in  this  fashion,  and  were  hopeful  of  making 
their  fortune.  But  as  the  animals  grew,  and  no 
offer  of  purchase  came,  and  the  neighborhood 
learned  of  the  menace,  parental  pressure,  reinforced 
by  community  sentiment,  brought  about  a  whole- 
sale slaughter. 

There  used  to  be  more  excitement  than  you  might 
suppose  in  our  woodchuck  hunts,  for  a  shotgun  is 
of  little  use  against  their  thick  hides  and  thicker 
skulls,  unless  you  are  close  up,  so  we  had  to  use 
rifles.  In  those  days  high-power  twenty-two's  with 
soft-nosed  expanding  bullets  were  unknown.  We 
used  to  read  of  magazine  rifles,  to  be  sure,  but  they 
were  only  things  to  dream  about.  We  hunted  with 
ancient  smooth-bores  fitted  for  percussion  caps  and 
loaded  from  the  muzzle.  I  can  well  remember  the 
old  bullet -mold,  a  Revolutionary  relic,  in  which  I 
used  to  make  ammunition.  It  was  much  like  a  pair 
of  pincers  in  shape.  Scrap  lead,  secured  from  all 
legitimate  and  some  illegitimate  sources,  was  melted 
down  in  an  iron  pot  on  the  kitchen  stove,  and  poured 
into  it,  one  bullet  at  a  time.  Powder  was  carried 
in  a  genuine  powder-horn  stopped  with  a  whittled 
wooden  plug  worn  dark  and  smooth.  We  estimated 
the  charge  by  fingers,  measured  on  the  ramrod. 
And  how  those  heavy  old  guns  kicked  against  our 
youthful  shoulders! 

To  get  a  proper  shot  at  a  woodchuck  required 
some  maneuvering.  He  had,  if  possible,  to  be  out- 
witted. I  remember  particularly  one  place  where 
the  holes  were  thickest,  forming  almost  a  woodchuck 
settlement,  like  a  prairie-dog  town.  It  was  on  the 
banks  of  a  swale  which  curled  like  a  long,  thin 


224 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

sickle-blade  through  a  fertile  meadow.  This  meadow 
was  always  under  cultivation,  and  accordingly 
the  chucks  burrowed  into  the  banks  of  the  border- 
ing swale,  often  between  the  roots  of  the  sycamore 
and  sassafras  trees  in  such  a  way  that  the  hole  could 
not  be  made  larger  by  a  dog.  Sallying  forth  from 
these  holes,  one  family  could  easily  eat  all  the  tur- 
nips or  cabbages  for  a  space  of  two  or  three  rods. 
When  twoscore  families  were  at  work,  it  is  easy  to 
see  the  extent  of  their  destruction.  But  it  wasn't 
easy  to  shoot  them  while  they  were  feeding,  because 
at  the  approach  of  danger  they  would  scamper  into 
their  holes.  Consequently  we  resorted  to  strategy. 
Our  metho^  was  as  follows:  carrying  our  guns 
nonchalantly,  we  would  stamp  along  directly  over 
a  hole  where  we  had  seen  a  chuck  enter,  whistling 
or  talking  as  if  we  had  no  idea  of  hunting.  Then, 
when  we  had  passed  the  hole  a  good  thirty  feet,  we 
would  suddenly  stop  and  noiselessly  and  cautiously 
face  about.  Very  frequently  a  muzzle  would  be 
poking  up  out  of  the  hole,  for  as  soon  as  the  danger 
is  past  the  chuck  has  a  habit  of  sticking  his  head 
out  to  take  a  sniff  of  his  enemy.  Then  we  would 
blaze  away.  Often  we  would  fire  anyhow,  aiming 
into  the  sand  or  grass  at  the  hole  mouth,  on  a  chance. 
The  boy  who  had  the  most  skins  tacked  up  on  the 
barn  door  at  the  end  of  a  season,  or  at  least  the 
most  tails,  if  he  was  too  lazy  to  skin  his  prey,  was 
something  of  a  hero.  I  cannot  now  remember  what 
we  ever  did  with  the  skins  after  they  were  cured. 
I  fancy  that  there  was  a  superstition  that  the  "  fur 
man"  would  buy  them,  just  as  the  "Bird  and  Pet 
Store"  was  going  to  buy  the  baby  chucks. 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  225 

On  the  upland  farms,  and  especially  in  the  past- 
ures bordering  the  woods,  another  method  was  to 


A  trophy  of  the  chase 

stalk  up  to  the  feeding-ground  behind  trees,  and  wait 
patiently  for  a  shot  at  some  fat  fellow  sitting  on  his 
haunches  in  the  sun  eating  a  juicy  clover  tuft  or 
peeping  over  a  stone  which  commanded  the  view, 


226  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

but  threw  his  body  sharply  against  the  sky.  The 
boy  with  a  wise  dog,  as  well  as  a  gun,  of  course  had 
an  advantage  always.  The  dog  could  start  up  the 
game  in  the  grass,  and  sometimes  head  him  off  from 
his  burrow,  though  the  chucks  do  not,  as  a  rule,  go 
far  afield  after  food.  They  make  their  holes  close 
to  where  the  feeding  is  good.  It  was  possible,  too, 
to  kill  a  woodchuck  without  a  gun  or  a  trap.  You 
accomplished  this  by  "playing  statue  "  —if  you  saw 
the  chuck  out  of  his  hole  and  also  knew  where  the 
hole  was  or  could  see  it.  You  began  by  walking 
stealthily  toward  the  burrow,  being  careful  each 
time  the  animal  looked  at  you  or  showed  any  alarm 
to  stop  stock-still  and  remain  so  till  he  lowered  his 
head  and  resumed  his  feeding.  Then  you  sneaked 
forward  again.  If  you  finally  succeeded  in  reaching 
a  point  between  him  and  his  hole,  you  sprang  at 
him  with  a  club,  and  then  ensued  an  exciting  five 
minutes  which  combined  all  the  athletic  excellences 
of  field-hockey,  golf,  baseball,  sprinting,  carpet- 
beating,  and  sometimes  football. 

I  cannot  refrain  here  from  telling  again  my  grand- 
father's story  of  his  woodchuck,  a  foxy  old  fellow 
who  lived  down  back  of  the  house  near  the  bank 
of  the  Ipswich  River,  and  ate  cabbages  insatiably 
while  defying  all  guns  and  traps.  My  grandfather 
and  his  brother  Syl.  decided  finally  to  drown  him 
out,  so  they  waited  till  they  knew  he  was  in  his  hole, 
and  then,  while  one  boy  stood  guard  with  a  stick, 
the  other  boy  began  to  haul  buckets  of  water  from 
the  river  and  dump  them  down  the  burrow.  Watch- 
ing and  hauling  by  turns,  they  became  weary  at  last, 
and  hid  under  a  near-by  bush  to  rest.  Presently 


THE    WAYS    OF   THE    WOODCHUCK227 

they  saw  old  Mr.  Chuck  poke  his  head  out  and  look 
all  about.  Not  seeing  them,  he  emerged  from  his 
hole,  trotted  down  to  the  river-bank,  and  took  a 
long  drink! 


Sunning  himself  in  lazy  contemplation  of  the  landscape 

Grandfather  used  to  assure  me  that  they  never 
did  get  that  woodchuck. 

Although  the  woodchuck  has  so  readily  adapted 
himself  to  changed  conditions,  abandoning  his  wild 
harvesting  for  more  succulent  cultivated  vegetables, 
grasses,  and  clover,  by  no  means  all  of  the  wood- 


228  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

chucks  even  to-day  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  A 
neighbor  of  mine,  who  has  a  large  orchard  of  dwarf 
apple-trees,  takes  his  rifle  whenever  he  visits  it,  be- 
cause the  chucks  are  such  pests,  tunneling  under 
the  very  roots  of  the  little  trees  and  eating  not  only 
the  clover  crop  sowed  between  the  rows,  but  also 
the  tender  bark  of  the  trees  themselves.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  came  upon  an  abandoned  clearing  in 
the  woods  the  other  day,  where  once,  to  be  sure,  a 
house  had  stood,  but  where  man  had  reaped  not, 
neither  had  he  sown,  for  at  least  a  generation — and 
sitting  on  the  mossy  door-step  of  the  vine-filled 
cellar  hole  was  a  big  woodchuck!  He  dove  off  at 
my  approach,  and  disappeared  down  his  hole,  not 
twenty  feet  away.  His  was  a  considerable  house, 
there  being  three  rear  entrances  instead  of  one,  or 
sometimes  two,  as  is  more  common,  and  the  total 
length  of  the  burrow  must  have  been  at  least  seventy- 
five  feet.  There  were  no  vegetables  in  this  clear- 
ing, and  only  a  few  wild  apples — seedlings,  no  doubt, 
from  cultivated  trees  now  long  dead.  The  grass 
was  long,  and  little,  clearly  marked  paths  radiated 
out  from  the  mouths  of  the  burrow  in  all  directions 
through  it.  Probably  clover,  berries,  and,  without 
doubt,  apples  in  autumn  constituted  the  bulk  of 
this  fellow's  diet. 

There  are  still  woodchucks,  too,  who  live  in  the 
real  forest,  frequently  in  hollow  logs,  though  I  have 
found  their  holes  again  and  again  under  a  stone 
beneath  a  big  pine  or  hemlock,  or  under  the  net- 
work of  roots  at  the  base  of  a  huge  hardwood.  They 
are  much  leaner  and  more  active  than  their  fellows 
of  the  fields  and  pastures,  for  they  get  less  food  and 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  229 

— - 

more  exercise,  and  usually  they  appear  rather  grayer 
in  color.     Their  natural  enemies  must  be  far  less  nu- 


A  favorite  haunt  is  the  network  of  roots  at  the  base  of 
a  huge  tree 


merous  than  in  the  old  days.  In  fact,  the  foxes  and 
the  hawks  are  about  the  only  enemies  they  have 
left,  except,  of  course,  man;  and  man  doesn't  trouble 


230  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

them  much  in  the  deep  woods.  The  foxes  will  even 
try  to  dig  them  out,  and  the  hawks  pounce  upon  the 
young  when  they  are  running  about,  both  in  the 
woods  and  even  around  the  farms.  Yet  the  genuine 
forest-dwellers  are  probably  far  less  numerous  than 
of  old. 

I  fear  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  woodchuck's 
god  is  his  belly,  and  he  thinks  more  highly  of  easy 
feeding  than  he  does  of  woodland  freedom.  He 
gravitates  by  instinct  toward  the  mown  clover,  the 
turnip -fields,  the  apple-orchards.  He  considers  man 
his  best  friend  as  well  as  his  worst  enemy.  Like  the 
rabbit,  he  is  strictly  vegetarian,  and  that  has  en- 
abled him  to  survive — not  only  to  survive,  but  to 
survive  in  great  numbers — while  one  by  one  his 
ancient  and  more  powerful  enemies  of  the  forest 
have;  been  exterminated,  always  with  the  exception 
of  the  foxes.  He  might  be  almost  safe  in  the  deep 
woods,  but  he  prefers  the  richer  rewards  of  danger, 
and  though  man  fights  to  exterminate  him,  man 
also  provides  him  with  such  a  vastly  increased  food- 
supply  that  extermination  seems  impossible.  The 
story  of  the  woodchuck  is  a  paradox. 

Of  course,  too,  another  powerful  factor  in  his  sur- 
vival is  his  hibernating  habit.  Taking  to  the  cover 
of  the  warm  earth  before  even  the  early  November 
snow  flies  (and  very  often,  I  feel  sure,  the  chucks  go 
back  to  the  woods  to  dig  in  for  the  winter,  where 
the  ground  does  not  freeze  so  deep,  for  I  have  more 
than  once  excavated  a  pasture  hole  which  had  been 
inhabited  all  summer,  only  to  find  it  empty),  the 
chuck  does  not  have  to  worry  about  the  lean  season. 
He  goes  to  sleep  as  fat  as  a  butter-ball,  wrapped  in 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  231 

warm,  thick,  furry  skin,  and  he  isn't  due  to  wake 
up  till  February  2d,  when  he  has  to  arouse  himself 
to  make  a  weather  story.  After  that  he  is  at  liberty 


A  denizen  of  the  deep  woods 

to  go  to  sleep  again,  though  he  rather  cat-naps,  as 
you  and  I  do  after  we  have  been  waked  of  a  morning 
by  the  birds.  He  doesn't  come  up  for  good,  as  a 
rule,  till  the  snow  is  gone  and  the  earth  is  softened, 


232 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

but  there  is  plenty  of  evidence  that  he  makes  oc- 
casional trips  to  the  surface 

For  instance,  I  find  this  entry  in  my  diary  for 
February  23d: 

On  snow-shoes  this  afternoon,  across  the  golf-links,  where  a 
weasel  had  preceded  me,  to  the  slope  of  mowing  where  the 
toboggan-slide  has  been  built.  Here  there  were  innumerable 
squirrel  tracks  from  tree  to  tree,  and  a  woodchuck  had  come 
out  of  his  hole  since  yesterday,  boring  up  through  two  feet  of 
snow  by  a  six-inch  tunnel,  He  had  made  a  dirty  yellowish 
track  for  ten  feet,  and  then  gone  down  into  a  second  bore, 
evidently  into  the  rear  entrance  of  his  house.  He  must  have 
crossed  this  path  several  times  to  track  so  much  yellow  earth 
upon  it,  but  there  was  not  a  single  sign  that  he  had  taken  a 
step  off  the  path.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  up  for  exercise  in 
his  dooryard,  as  my  father,  in  bad  weather,  used  to  go  out  and 
tramp  back  and  forth  on  the  veranda. 

You  might  suppose  that  he  would  have  been  lean 
and  hungry,  and  would  naturally  have  gone  after 
some  of  those  raspberry  shoots  above  the  snow  near 
by  which  the  rabbits  had  been  nibbling.  But  he 
had  not  done  so,  and  if  you  had  seen  him  the  chances 
are  he  would  not  have  appeared  particularly  emaci- 
ated. The  truth  is,  he  was  probably  too  fat  when 
he  went  to  sleep! 

The  boys  still  hunt  woodchucks  as  they  used  to 
do,  for  the  chuck  is  their  especial  prey.  Not  long 
ago  I  came  upon  a  barn  hung  with  more  than  a 
hundred  tails,  the  proud  trophies  of  the  chase  for 
three  seasons  of  a  boy  not  yet  in  long  trousers. 
Later  I  saw  him  and  another  boy,  and  a  barking, 
joyous,  alert  collie,  starting  off  over  a  stone  wall  and 
across  a  pasture  after  woodchucks.  They  were 


Green  meadows,  daisy-starred,  invite  the  woodchuck  from  his  lair 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  WQQDCHUCK  233 

armed  with  an  ancient  gun  and  a  perfect  arsenal  of 
rusty  old  steel  traps.  They  were  talking  in  subdued 
but  excited  tones,  laying  their  plans  deeply.  Scraps 
of  their  conversation  floated  back  for  a  moment — 
the  beginnings  of  sentences,  trailing  off  into  indis- 
tinguishableness :  "Aw,  yes,  le's  go — !"  "  Say,  what 
say  if  we—  "  and  the  like  mysteries.  A  boy,  a  gun, 
a  dog — and  a  woodchuck!  What  memories  came 
back  to  me!  I  saw  green  meadows  daisy-starred, 
and  pasture  slopes  and  the  gleam  of  birches,  and 
caught  again  the  scent  of  raspberries  in  the  sun,  and 
heard  across  far  fields  the  hot  cicada- whir  of  a 
mowing-machine ;  and  in  my  heart  I  felt  once  more 
the  ancient  thrill  as  a  chuck  was  sighted.  Here,  to 
be  sure,  before  my  bodily,  eye,  were  meadows  and 
pastures,  and  no  doubt  berries  grew  by  the  garden 
wall — but  not  the  same  berries.  /  was  not  starting 
out  on  the  hunt.  I  was  not  plotting  a  Napoleonic 
campaign  against  a  crafty  enemy.  I  was  neither 
huntsman  nor  adventurer.  A  woodchuck  by  a 
pasture  stump  a  simple  woodchuck  was  to  me,  and 
it  was  nothing  more.  I  grew  rather  peevishly  pen- 
sive at  the  thought.  I  wanted  to  be  a  boy  again.  I 
resented  "  the  light  of  common  day."  I  always  want 
to  be  a  boy  again  when  I  see  the  youngsters  after 
woodchucks.  It  is  the  keenest  present-day  reminder 
that  any  of  us  can  have  of  the  simpler,  more  earthy 
and  artless  delights  of  youth  in  the  America  of  a 
vanishing  generation. 


FOXES  AND  OTHER  NEIGHBORS 

OUR  game  warden  was  in  reminiscent  mood. 
It  was  Sunday,  nobody  had  reported  any  set 
lines  requiring  a  trip  to  a  distant  pond  and  a 
search  for  the  offending  line  and  the  culprits;  the 
shooting  season  had  not  opened.  He  could  sit  on 
the  porch  in  front  of  his  house,  with  its  treasures 
of  stuffed  horned  owls,  pheasants  of  every  breed, 
partridges,  woodcock,  deer  horns  and  heads,  even 
the  shed  antlers  of  a  Berkshire  moose  (there  are 
now  at  least  thirteen  moose  living  wild  in  the  woods 
of  Berkshire  County,  Massachusetts,  and  there  are 
two  elk,  so  called,  or  Wapiti  deer — all,  of  course, 
escaped  from  the  old  William  C.  Whitney  preserve 
on  October  Mountain),  and  talk  at  his  ease. 

1  There  are  more  foxes  in  western  Massachusetts 
to-day  than  there  have  been  in  many,  many  years,'* 
he  said.  "  There  isn't  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  but 
they  are  on  the  increase.  They  are  not  hunted 
nearly  so  much  as  they  used  to  be,  and  while  they 
are  trapped,  probably,  a  bit  more,  they  are  such 
crafty  creatures  that  it  doesn't  serve  to  diminish 
their  numbers.  Did  you  ever  have  a  fox  laugh  at 
you?" 

.We  confessed  that  we  had  never  enjoyed  that 
experience. 

"  Well,  I  have,"  said  he.     "  It  was  a  Long  Island 
fox,  years  ago.      My  dad  and  I  were  hunting  him, 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS   235 

and  dad  stationed  me  at  the  end  of  a  run  and  told 
me  to  wait  while  he  drove  him  up.  The  fox  came,  all 
right,  but  before  I  could  get  a  shot  he  sprang  up  on 
a  stone  wall — we  called  it  a  stone  fence  on  Long 
Island — and  sat  there  directly  between  me  and  a 
herd  of  sheep.  I  couldn't  fire  without  hitting  a 
sheep,  and  he  knew  it.  He  just  sat  and  looked  at  me 
a  minute,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  sides  shaking 
with  laughter.  If  ever  an  animal  laughed,  he  did. 
Then  he  sprang  down  right  into  the  middle  of  the 
flock,  and  drove  them  across  the  pasture,  keeping 
himself  surrounded  all  the  way.  I  never  had  a 
chance  at  him.  When  dad  came  up  he  was  mad,  I 
tell  you.  'The  old  fox  laughed  at  me,  dad/  I  cried. 

"  'Who  wouldn't  laugh  at  you?'  dad  said.  I  guess 
he  knew  I  was  kind  of  glad  the  fox  got  away.  My 
job  now  is  saving  wild  things,  not  killing  'em,  and 
while  the  foxes  get  a  lot  of  chickens  and  hens  every 
year,  along  with  partridges,  pheasants,  and  rabbits 
(they've  got  thousands  of  rabbits  the  past  two 
winters),  I'm  not  at  all  sure  they  don't  pay  for  what 
they  take  by  their  destruction  of  mice  and  other 
objectionable  things.  Anyhow,  they're  too  smart 
to  destroy." 

Those  people,  indeed,  who  have  not  made  an 
effort  to  explore  the  woods  and  fields  have  little 
idea  how  much  wild  life  still  lives  close  to  our  hab- 
itations in  the  old  northeastern  states,  even  of  the 
fur-bearing  or  flesh-eating  breeds,  from  muskrat  and 
mink  and  weasels  up  to  wildcats.  It  will  probably 
surprise  most  readers  to  learn  that  from  a  single 
village  of  two  thousand  people  on  the  Housatonic 
River  in  northwestern  Connecticut  $15,000  worth  of 


236  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

furs  is  exported  every  spring,  the  majority  of  them 
muskrat  pelts,of  course,  but  many  fox  and  even  otter 
skins  being  of  the  number.  A  Southern  darky,  now 
a  resident  of  this  town,  told  with  pride  of  the  catch 
made  by  a  friend  of  his. 

"'Twas  an  o'ter,"  he  said,  "an''  Sam  got  fo' 
dollars  a  foot  fo'  dat  hide,  yassuh,  fo'  dollars  a  foot, 
an'  it  wore  six  feet  long!" 

Even  more  surprising  to  most  people  than  the 
size  of  Sam's  otter,  and  better  authenticated,  will 
be  the  statement  that  the  treasurer  of  Berkshire 
County,  Massachusetts,  has  paid  out  five-dollar 
bounties  for  an  average  of  about  eighteen  wildcats 
a  year  since  1903,  when  the  law  went  into  effect. 
To  the  thousands  of  motor  tourists  who  pass  through 
this  beautiful  section  of  New  England  every  season, 
even  to  the  occupants  of  the  summer  estates  which 
dot  our  hills  and  gracious  valleys,  it  will  doubtless 
seem  strange  that  so  formidable  a  forest  beast  as  the 
wildcat  should  still  prowl  the  woods.  It  only  shows 
how  little  most  of  us  nowadays  know  about  our 
four-footed  neighbors. 

I  have  recently  acquired  a  two-hundred-acre  farm 
in  southern  Berkshire,  under  the  shadow  of  Mount 
Everett,  or  the  Dome,  as  we  more  familiarly  call  it. 
One  half  of  the  farm  runs  up  the  mountain-side,  the 
other  half  is  comparatively  level  land  at  the  foot, 
and  the  two  halves  are  bisected  by  the  so-called 
Under  Mountain  Road,  the  main  motor  highway 
from  New  York  to  the  Berkshires.  On  a  pleasant 
Saturday  in  summer  I  suppose  as  many  as  a  thou- 
sand cars  may  pass  my  door.  Yet  one  of  the  first 
discoveries  I  made  in  going  over  the  land  was  a  fox's 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS   237 

den  not  more  than  three  hundred  yards  back  from 
the  road,  on  top  of  a  rocky  nub  covered  with  large 
sugar-maples  and  trailing  bittersweet- vines,  in  the 
open  ground.  It  was  quite  fresh  and  constantly 
occupied,  for  a  plain  path  led  away  from  it  through 
the  vines  to  the  field  below.  This  path  was  about 
ten  inches  wide,  and  perfectly  plain  to  a  casual 
glance.  Probably  the  puppies  had  been  using  it  all 
summer  (it  was  August  ist  when  I  found  it).  I 
have  waited  patiently  near  by  many  an  hour  since, 
when  I  should  have  been  working,  for  a  sight  of 
them,  but  so  far  in  vain.  About  six  feet  from  this 
fresh  burrow  is  an  old  burrow,  last  year's  apparently, 
and  just  outside  the  mouth,  on  the  upper  side,  is  a 
pile  of  bleached  bones  six  inches  high  and  a  foot 
across.  There  were  at  least  three  chicken  wish- 
bones in  the  pile.  Yet  the  farmer  of  whom  I  bought 
the  place  had  an  active  and  sagacious  dog.  I  sup- 
pose when  I  get  the  farm  stocked  again  I,  too,  shall 
pay  tribute.  But  I  shall  make  the  old  fox  reward 
me  with  a  puppy  for  a  pet. 

Did  you  ever  have  a  little  fox  for  a  pet?  No 
animal  on  earth  has  such  a  bright,  sagacious  face — • 
as,  indeed,  no  animal  on  earth  is  so  sagacious,  so 
capable  of  reasoning  and  of  applying  experience  to 
new  combinations  of  circumstances,  which  is  but 
the  proof  of  reasoning.  When  I  was  a  little  boy  of 
six  or  seven  I  had  a  pet  fox  all  one  blissful  summer. 
He  was  one  of  a  litter  captured  by  a  farmer,  and 
had  been  raised  by  hand.  The  rest  died,  but  by 
late  June,  when  he  came  into  my  possession,  this 
little  fellow  was  a  hardy,  active,  well-formed  foxling, 
with  a  big,  swinging  tail  and  the  two  brightest, 


238  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

snapping,  twinkling  eyes  in  the  world.  He  lived  in 
a  dog-house  by  the  barn,  on  a  long  chain,  and  went 
into  canine  spasms  of  welcome  when  I  approached, 
leaping  at  once  to  my  shoulder,  where  he  would  sit 
and  chew  off  the  rim  of  my  straw  hat  like  a  puppy. 
Once  he  got  hold  of  my  ear  by  mistake,  and  I 
learned  that  foxes  have  teeth.  He  would  go  around 
with  me  on  a  leash,  nearly  pulling  me  off  my  feet,  and 
showing  no  fear  whatever  of  human  beings.  But 
as  he  grew  larger  he  developed  a  too  active  dislike 
to  other  people,  though  never  to  me  (nor  did  he,  as 
I  recall,  become  inactive  and  broodingly  morose,  as 
so  many  captured  foxes  do) .  At  last  it  was  decreed 
that  he  must  be  shot,  however.  My  tears  and 
pleading  won  for  him  a  mitigation  of  this  sentence 
to  banishment  to  the  woods,  and  one  late  August 
day  his  collar  and  chain  were  removed.  He  made  a 
couple  of  glad  bounds,  trotted  leisurely  off  across 
the  fields,  and  was  never  seen  by  me  again. 

But  by  no  means  all  captured  foxes  will  thus  take 
to  the  woods.  A  friend  of  mine  brought  up  a  puppy 
once  which  he  used  to  release  every  day.  The  fox 
would  trot  off  to  the  wilds  and  the  dog  would  go 
baying  after  it.  Invariably  the  fox,  after  leading 
the  dog  a  chase  for  a  while,  would  come  panting 
back  to  his  kennel,  lie  down,  and  go  peacefully  to 
sleep.  He  knew  the  dog  wouldn't  molest  him  there. 

The  approved  method  of  capturing  fox  puppies  is 
to  dig  them  out.  It  is  not  much  practised  here- 
abouts, but  farther  north,  where  fox-farms  abound, 
even  the  lumbermen  are  such  hunters.  The  efforts 
of  the  mother  fox  to  save  her  little  ones  are  some- 
times pathetic.  A  year  or  two  ago,  in  the  woods  of 


Reynard  springs  on  a  mouse 


FOXES    AND   OTHER    NEIGHBORS    239 

northern  Michigan,  two  lumbermen  saw  a  fox's  den 
and  poked  into  it.  Nothing  happened,  so  they 
went  on.  Returning  at  night,  they  saw  that  fresh 
tracks  led  from  this  den  to  a  newly  dug  burrow  not 
far  away,  and  surmised  that  the  mother  fox  had 
moved  her  family.  Thereupon  they  started  digging. 
As  they  dug  they  could  hear  the  fox  digging  ahead 
of  them  in  the  ground,  and  it  became  evident  she 
was  tunneling  in  a  circle,  to  reach  the  entrance 
ahead  of  them  and  escape.  So  one  of  the  men  dug 
ahead  to  cut  her  off,  and  the  other  dug  behind  her. 
The  latter  digger  came  speedily  upon  four  puppies, 
and  the  former  reached  the  old  fox  herself.  She  had 
been  forced  to  abandon  most  of  her  litter  in  her  mad 
effort  to  escape;  but  she  was  carrying  one  baby  with 
her,  all  she  could  hope  to  save.  Two  other  men  from 
the  same  camp  found  a  fox's  hole  in  a  fallen,  hollow 
tree  and  started  to  chop  the  family  out.  In  this 
case  the  mother  drove  all  the  family — five  again— 
up  the  center  of  a  hollow  branch  ahead  of  her.  The 
choppers  came  upon  her  from  behind.  They  tied 
her  hind  legs  together  and  then  tied  this  thong  to  a 
pole,  thus  pulling  her  out  from  a  safe  distance,  for 
she  was  fighting  mad,  and  a  fox's  bite  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant thing.  In  front  of  her  were  the  pups,  the  fore- 
most one  so  jammed  into  the  rotten  wood  near  the 
end  of  the  branch  that  he  could  hardly  breathe. 
This  litter  was  more  than  a  month  old,  and  every- 
one of  them  lived  in  captivity  on  the  near-by  fox 
farm. 

It  is  in  winter,  of  course,  that  you  can  most 
readily  track  a  fox  and  find  his  hole.  Unlike  the 
average  dog,  he  leaves  but  two  prints  in  the  snow 


240 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


instead  of  four,  unless  he  is  jumping,  and  his  paws 
are  smaller  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  his  step. 


A  midnight  vigil 

When  he  is  comparatively  undisturbed,  he  will  often 
make  a  regular  path  to  his  den.     For  three  or  four 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    241 

years  now  a  fox  has  burrowed  on  a  certain  steep  and 
rocky  hillside  near  our  village,  always  close  to  the 
top,  and  as  soon  as  the  deep  snow  conies  he  estab- 
lishes a  regular  trail  up  to  his  dwelling.  Out  in  the 
fields  below  the  hillside  forest  his  tracks  may  be 
seen  coming  from  all  directions,  but  once  in  the 
woods  they  speedily  converge  into  a  path  about 
eight  inches  wide,  trodden  down  six  or  seven  inches 
into  the  snow,  like  a  tiny  snow  ditch.  This  path 
leads  up  the  rough  slope  in  a  winding  direction, 
taking  frequent  cover  under  the  tangle  of  laurel- 
bushes  and  passing  under  the  south  side  of  almost 
every  overhanging  boulder.  Apparently  this  is  be- 
cause the  snow  often  melts  down  to  bare  ground 
under  such  sheltering  rocks,  and  the  partridges  and 
pheasants  huddle  there  for  food  or  shelter.  No 
doubt  the  fox  comes  sneaking  down  his  path,  which 
invariably  is  concealed  from  the  lower  side  of  the 
rock  till  it  suddenly  swings  in  under,  and  pounces 
hopefully  for  game  when  his  nose  or  ear  gives  him 
warning.  Near  the  top  of  the  hill  the  path  dis- 
appears into  a  round  hole  in  the  snow,  dirtied  with 
soil  from  the  animal's  belly,  and  ten  feet  up  is  an- 
other hole,  apparently  little  used,  which  may  or 
may  not  go  into  the  earth  or  be  merely  the  end  of  a 
snow  tunnel  to  facilitate  escape.  I  have  never  had 
the  heart  to  disturb  it,  for  this  fox  is  an  old  settler, 
and  the  winter  woods  would  not  seem  right  without 
his  tracks.  At  night  I  have  heard  him  barking,  a 
thin,  querulous,  husky  bark,  but  never  emitting  the 
somewhat  panther-like  scream  that  foxes  do  at  times 
give  vent  to — it  is  said  most  frequently  in  spring. 
This  scream,  heard  near  a  lonely  dwelling  in  the 


242  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

country,  may  be  extremely  terrifying  to  the  igno- 
rant or  nervous.  The  illustrator  of  this  book  once 
waked  his  ten-year-old  son,  a  great  lover  of  wild 
animals  and  birds,  to  hear  a  fox  which  was  scream- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  woods  behind  the  house.  Al- 
though he  was  told  what  the  noise  was,  the  little 
fellow  burst  into  sobs  when  he  first  heard  it  from  the 
close  dark  outside  the  door.  It  is  a  sound  totally 
unlike  the  rather  canine  bark  of  the  fox,  and  quite 
unlike  a  dog's  howl,  also.  It  is  much  more  catlike. 
Just  what  its  significance  is  nobody  seems  certain. 
It  may  be  a  male  challenge  call.  But  in  mid- July 
last  summer  I  was  awakened  by  it,  or,  rather,  by 
my  wife,  who  bade  me  listen.  I  sat  up  in  bed  on 
the  sleeping-porch,  and  suddenly  from  the  very 
edge  of  the  woods,  not  one  hundred  yards  away, 
came  the  most  blood-curdling  yell  I  ever  want  to 
hear.  The  dog,  who  slept  outside,  was  silent,  and 
we  were  so  amazed  at  this  that  we  went  down-stairs. 
It  was  a  still,  starry  night.  The  dog,  only  mildly 
excited,  was  standing  with  nose  pointed  toward  the 
woods,  and  tail  swinging,  as  he  might  have  done 
had  he  seen  a  canine  friend  in  the  offing.  The 
scream  came  twice  more  from  the  shadows,  and  then 
ceased.  The  next  night  we  heard  it  again,  farther 
away  and  across  the  road  in  a  swamp.  Again  the 
dog  did  not  even  bark.  The  meaning  of  these 
screams,  and  of  the  dog's  almost  complete  indif- 
ference to  them,  I  do  not  attempt  to  explain.  I  only 
know  the  incident  happened  in  midsummer,  not  in 
the  mating  or  breeding  season. 

There  is  one  ridge  of  rock  and  scrub  timber  over- 
looking the  Housatonic  Valley  in  northwestern  Con- 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS   243 

necticut  where  as  many  as  a  dozen  foxes'  holes  have 
been  found  in  a  season.  This  ridge  is  a  couple  of 
miles  from  the  village,  and  from  it  you  look  east- 
ward over  a  swampy  country  to  the  wall  of  a  wooded 
mountain  where  wildcats  live.  The  foxes  make 
their  holes  here  underneath  the  large  surface  boulders 
and  the  snow  in  the  woods  in  winter  is  covered  with 
their  tracks.  They  probably  go  considerable  dis- 
tances for  their  food,  and  no  doubt  rob  many  chick- 
en-yards, especially  in  summer,  when  they  can  stalk 
under  cover;  but  they  must  also  feed  largely  on 
mice  and  woodchucks,  birds  and  rabbits,  the  last 
abounding  in  the  swamp  below.  That  foxes  travel 
long  distances  to  definite  objectives  can  be  readily 
inferred  from  their  tracks.  Again  and  again  I  have 
come  on  a  fresh  fox  track  leading  across  a  wide  open 
space  which  he  had  traversed  the  night  before  or 
perhaps  early  that  morning,  and  this  track  would 
not  vary  a  hair's-breadth  from  an  air  line.  If  you 
will  try  to  walk  across  a  snow  field  a  mile  wide  and 
keep  an  air  line  you  will  realize  that  only  the  utmost 
concentration  of  mind  and  vision  upon  some  definite 
objective  on  the  farther  side  will  enable  you  to  do 
it.  When  the  fox  is  startled  he  usually  is  so  sure 
of  himself  that  he  merely  seems  to  glide  into  a  faster 
trot.  But  sometimes  he  will  gallop,  and  then  he  is 
a  pretty  sight,  all  grace  and  speed  and  animated 
nerves.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  foxes,  too,  to  pretend 
not  to  see  you.  J.  M.  Barrie  tells  how  he  brought  a 
Scotch  sheep-dog  to  London,  and  the  dog  rushed  at 
the  sheep  in  a  London  park.  When  the  sheep  paid 
no  attention  to  him,  he  raised  his  head  with  what 
dignity  he  could  and  continued  to  bark,  pretending 


244 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


he  had  been  barking  at  some  birds  in  a  tree  all 
the  time.  A  fox  seems  to  have  the  same  canine 
trait.  I  was  sitting  once  on  the  edge  of  a  wood, 


A  dash  across  the  open  by  an  air-line  track 

reading.  A  fox  came  down  wind  amid  the  thin 
birches  of  the  forest  fringe,  not  hearing  or  scenting 
me,  intent  on  some  business  of  his  own.  Suddenly 
he  got  the  scent,  raised  his  head,  took  one  look,  and 
then  pretended  he  hadn't  seen  me  at  all,  but  that 
his  trail  led  off  at  a  side  angle  into  the  woods.  He 
followed  it  with  exaggerated  indifference.  Coasting 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    245 

down  a  long  hill  near  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  the 
other  day,  with  my  engine  off,  I  saw  a  beautiful  big 
fox  sitting  on  a  stump  by  the  road,  back  to.  I  was 
only  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  away  when  he  heard 
me  and  gave  an  instinctive  spring  off  the  stump 
away  from  the  road.  But  he  no  sooner  landed  than 
he  seemed  ashamed  of  himself,  and  deliberately 
turned,  crossed  the  road  in  front  of  me,  trotted 
rapidly  but  calmly  up  the  lee  of  a  pasture  wall  to  a 
safe  distance,  and  then  sat  on  his  haunches  and 
watched  me  slow  up  the  car  to  observe  him. 

The  fox  hunts,  in  many  ways,  like  a  dog,  though 
his  ears  are  far  keener,  so  that  he  can  hear  a  field- 
mouse  squeak  several  hundred  feet  away.  He 
pounces  on  small  prey  like  mice  with  his  fore  paws, 
just  as  a  field-trained  dog  will  do,  and  when  he  digs 
out  a  woodchuck  he  will  keep  backing  out  of  the 
hole  and  taking  a  look  at  the  rear  entrance  to  make 
sure  his  quarry  is  not  escaping,  exactly  like  a  good 
working  Airedale.  There  are  many  authenticated 
instances  of  wild  foxes  making  friends  with  farm 
dogs,  too,  and  playing  with  them.  Whether  this  is 
a  ruse  to  make  chicken-hunting  safer,  or  merely  a 
sign  of  kinship,  nobody  can  certainly  say.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  the  former,  even  of  so  clever  an 
animal  as  the  fox.  When  it  comes  to  fighting  he  is 
quite  as  good  as  some  dogs,  and  far  quicker;  but, 
of  course,  he  finds  it  easier  and  very  much  safer  to 
resort  to  strategy. 

Any  one  who  sets  out  to  accumulate  fox  stories, 
especially  from  old-time  fox-hunters,  will  soon  have 
a  collection  that  will  tax  his  memory  and,  not  in- 
frequently, his  credulity.  One  of  my  old  trapper 


246 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

acquaintances,  who  is  highly  successful,  never,  of 
course,  touches  any  of  his  rusty  fox-traps  with  his 
hands,  and  uses  every  other  known  precaution,  yet 
he  says  he  has  buried  a  meaty  bone  under  the  same 
snow-pile  for  a  week,  to  find  it  dug  out  by  a  fox  the 
next  morning,  and  then;  on  the  morning  after  he 
had  at  last  placed  a  trap  beneath  the  snow-pile  and 
the  bone,  found  tracks  all  around,  but  not  a  sign  of 
digging.  On  the  whole,  I  think  the  best  fox  story 
that  I  know,  and  one  which  cannot  be  questioned, 
was  told  to  me  by  Hamilton  Gibson,  a  son  of  Will- 
iam Hamilton  Gibson,  the  beloved  artist-naturalist. 
When  the  younger  Mr.  Gibson  was  about  seventeen, 
in  Washington,  Connecticut,  he  was  the  proud  pos- 
sessor of  a  speedy,  high-bred  Kentucky  fox-hound, 
a  real  fox-hound  that  made  the  local  dogs  look  like 
amateurs.  He  was  walking  with  her  one  snowy 
winter  day  when  she  picked  up  a  track  in  a  field 
and  began  to  run  it.  This  track,  her  master  noted, 
was  that  of  an  evidently  injured  fox,  one  hind-paw 
mark  being  consistently  missing. 

The  dog  was  working  up  a  slight  incline,  toward 
woods  and  a  large  rock,  nose  half  buried  in  the 
snow,  and  had  almost  reached  the  boulder,  when 
suddenly  from  behind  this  rock  a  big  fox  sprang  out 
directly  in  her  path,  obviously  to  attract  her  atten- 
tion. She  was  off  after  him  in  a  flash,  her  silvery 
challenge  ringing  out.  There  was  no  use  in  his  try- 
ing to  follow,  so  Mr.  Gibson  sat  down  to  wait, 
knowing  that  if  the  dog  lost  her  prey  she  would 
return  here  to  the  first  track.  Sure  enough,  after 
an  hour,  back  she  came,  panting,  weary,  a  bit 
crestfallen,  got  her  nose  into  the  original  scent 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    247 

again,  and  began  working  busily  up  toward  the 
woods. 

Then,  no  less  to  her  master's  astonishment  than 
to  her  own,  what  was  to  all  appearances  the  same 
big  fox  sprang  once  more  from  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  directly  into  her  path,  and  led  her  off  a 
second  time  on  a  wild  chase.  Mr.  Gibson,  investi- 
gating the  original  trail,  found  it  continued  into  the 
woods,  with  only  the  three  paws  treading.  No  one 
could  say,  of  course,  that  the  big  fox  which  twice 
put  itself  in  the  dog's  way  and  led  it  off  the  trail  of 
this  injured  animal  was  the  cripple's  mate;  but 
there  was  every  indication  that  he  was,  at  any 
rate,  deliberately  inviting  two  contests  of  speed  and 
skill  with  the  best  dog  in  the  neighborhood  in 
order  to  protect  another,  weaker  member  of  his 
kind  and  give  it  time  to  get  to  a  den.  Not 
only  had  he  led  the  dog  astray  the  first  time,  but 
he  had  either  anticipated  the  dog's  return  to  the 
original  trail  or  had  actually  followed  her  back  to 
be  ready  for  emergencies.  From  such  intelligence 
and  devotion  as  this  it  is  impossible  to  withhold 
one's  undiluted  admiration. 

Over  on  the  mountain,  across  the  swamp  from  the 
ridge  where  the  foxes  den,  is  a  reservoir,  high  up 
in  the  woods,  and  here  wildcat  tracks  are  seen 
every  winter  and  once  in  a  while  one  of  the  beasts, 
crouching,  perhaps,  on  a  log  fallen  out  into  the 
water,  watching  for  fish.  But  only  the  craftiest 
hunter  is  thus  rewarded,  for  the  wildcat,  or  bobcat 
(Lynx  ruff  us),  is  as  shy  an  animal  as  remains  in  our 
Eastern  forests,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  is  the 
fiercest  and  most  formidable.  The  full-grown  cat 


248 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


is    about    thirty-eight    inches    long    (including    six 
inches  of  stiff  tail).     His  hair  is  shorter  and  redder 


The  wildcat  is  the  shyest  animal  of  our  Eastern  forests, 
and  yet  the  fiercest  and  most  formidable 

than  the  true  Canada  lynx,  being  mixed  white  and 
black  only  on  the  under  side,  and  his  paws  are  much 
smaller  in  proportion  to  his  body,  though  they  are 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    249 

large  enough,  and  seem  out  of  all  scale  with  his  head. 
Just  as  the  domestic  cat  differs  from  the  dog,  the 
wildcat  differs  from  the  fox.  He  is  self-sufficient, 
aloof,  unsocial,  and  capable  of  great  fierceness.  I 
have  seen  but  one  in  captivity,  and  that  was  a  female 
caught  as  a  kitten  in  the  northern  Massachusetts 
hills.  She  never  became  tame,  and  as  she  grew 
larger  she  spit  through  the  bars  of  her  cage,  with 
terrifying  ferocity.  Finally  she  attracted  another 
cat  in  the  woods  near  by,  which  used  to  emit  wild 
yowlings  at  night,  and  the  neighborhood  decreed 
an  execution. 

The  great  bulk  of  our  Berkshire  wildcat  popula- 
tion lives  in  the  so-called  hill  towns,  some  miles  from 
the  railroad  and  cultivated  valleys,  though  they  fre- 
quently come  down  to  the  edge  of  the  plain  in 
winter.  They  make  their  homes  in  the  great  acre- 
age of  second-growth  timber  and  scrub  over  the 
rocky  slopes,  and,  the  trappers  agree,  prefer  fallen 
hollow  logs  for  their  nests,  but  will  use  tiny  natural 
caves  lined  with  dead  leaves.  In  summer,  when 
there  are  plenty  of  mice,  rabbits,  and  birds,  it  is  al- 
most never  one  of  them  is  seen,  though  you  will 
occasionally  come  upon  a  wild-catnip  bed  rolled 
down  and  trodden.  This  is  not  always  the  case, 
however,  for  last  summer  our  game  warden  and  his 
wife,  while  camping  at  a  mountain  pond  near  the 
state  motor  highway  over  Jacob's  Ladder  from 
Springfield,  were  followed  by  a  wildcat  for  several 
hundred  feet.  It  was  in  the  evening,  and  they  were 
walking  along  a  back-country  road  through  the 
woods.  The  cat,  which  evidently  had  kittens  some- 
where about,  followed  them  in  the  bushes  beside 


25Q  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

the  road,  snarling  and  spitting,  and  they  could  not 
only  hear  the  bushes  crack,  but  they  now  and  then 
could  see  the  two  lights  of  the  animal's  eyes.  The 
warden  had  no  gun,  and  declares,  "It  was  an  un- 
pleasant five  minutes — for  my  wife,  of  course!"  As 
soon  as  they  reached  the  clearing  the  cat  ceased  to 
follow. 

But  such  an  experience  in  summer  is  rare  indeed. 
In  winter,  however,  the  cats  are  forced  by  hunger 
to  prowl  farther  afield,  and  even  to  rob  henroosts. 
Then  their  tracks  are  not  infrequently  to  be  en- 
countered, and  the  trappers  and  hunters  get  after 
them.  A  few  winters  ago  a  man  in  Mount  Wash- 
ington Township,  in  the  southwestern  corner  of 
Massachusetts,  was  walking  with  his  dog.  The 
dog  picked  up  a  fresh  trail  and  set  off  in  full  cry. 
The  man,  thinking  the  track  that  of  a  fox  (he  could 
not  have  been  much  of  a  woodsman),  snatched 
up  a  heavy  club  and  followed.  Presently  he  heard 
sounds  of  a  fight  just  under  a  ledge  below  him,  and 
without  hesitating  he  jumped  over.  He  was  the 
most  surprised  man  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts 
when  he  landed  with  both  feet  on  the  back  of  a  bob- 
cat. The  cat  was  in  process  of  disposing  of  the  dog, 
and  was  rather  put  out  at  being  thus  rudely  dis- 
turbed. It  got  in  one  good  lacerating  blow  at  the 
man's  leg  before  a  crack  on  the  head  with  the  club 
stunned  it  and  it  could  be  killed.  The  proud  hunter 
limped  home  and  had  his  trophy  stuffed,  and  ex- 
hibited it  in  a  store  window  in  Great  Barrington. 

There  was  another  wildcat  in  our  neighborhood 
known  as  "Old  Stub."  He  was  caught  in  a  trap, 
gnawed  his  foot  off,  and  escaped.  The  stub  healed, 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    251 

and  thereafter  his  three-footed  tracks  were  unmis- 
takable in  the  snow.  He  was  never  caught  in  a  trap 
again,  but  contrived  to  extract  the  bait  over  and 
over,  to  the  rage  of  the  trappers,  who  made  com- 
mon cause  against  him  with  dogs  and  guns.  For 
three  years  he  eluded  them,  till  Old  Stub  had  begun 
to  be  a  kind  of  hero.  Finally  he  was  brought  to 
bay  and  shot. 

How  much  the  snow  has  to  do  with  the  fate  of 
forest  animals  is  well  illustrated  by  the  records  of 
wildcat  bounties.  In  1916,  when  the  snow  was  the 
deepest  in  at  least  a  generation,  twenty-eight  cats 
were  accounted  for  in  our  county.  The  previous 
year  but  fifteen  were  killed,  and  the  next  winter, 
when  the  snow  was  very  light,  only  eight. 

Of  course  the  wildcats  and  foxes  are  not  the  only 
wild  animals  in  our  woods  which  subsist  on  flesh. 
To  the  number  must  be  added  mink,  weasels,  otters 
(largely  a  fish-eating  mammal),  raccoons  (which 
also  eat  corn  and  other  vegetable  products),  and 
skunks.  Mink,  weasels,  and  skunks  are  closely 
akin.  The  'coon  (which  does  not  show  any  serious 
signs  of  extermination)  is  said  to  belong  to  the  bear 
family.  All  of  these  animals,  particularly  the  mink, 
are  sought  for  their  fur,  and  the  otter,  especially,  is 
becoming  extremely  rare.  However,  it  is  a  curious 
fact  that  in  the  last  three  or  four  years  there  are 
signs  that  the  otters  are  growing  more  numerous 
again,  or,  better,  less  infrequent ;  and  this  is  undoubt- 
edly due  to  the  fact  that  the  scarcity  of  them,  and 
of  other  fur-bearing  animals,  has  gradually  forced 
the  older  trappers  into  other  occupations,  while  the 
younger  generation  is  hardly  trained  at  all  in  wood- 


252  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

craft.  As  their  enemies  decrease,  the  last  few  otters, 
with  half  a  chance  for  life,  begin  to  restore  their 
breed  again.  The  constantly  increasing  pollution 
of  our  larger  streams,  with  banks  most  suitable  fpr 
an  animal  of  his  size  to  nest  in,  must  have  had  much 
to  do  with  his  disappearance,  as  well  as  the  lust  of 
the  hunters. 

I  saw  an  otter  only  last  spring  on  the  bank  of  the 
Housatonic  River  where  it  flows  through  the  links 
of  the  Stockbridge  Golf  Club.  He  was  running 
along  above  the  water,  on  the  steep,  muddy  slope, 
and  when  he  saw  me  he  simply  made  a  toboggan  of 
himself  and  slid  down,  swimming  off  at  a  rate  of 
speed  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  pickerel,  and 
leaving,  for  a  few  feet  only,  a  surface  wake  like  a 
just  submerged  torpedo.  The  river  is  so  polluted, 
however,  that  no  fish  can  live  in  it  except  German 
carp,  and  any  sensible  otter  would  seek  some  tribu- 
tary to  ascend  as  soon  as  he  could.  He  might  not 
even  wait,  but  go  overland,  dragging  his  long  body 
and  powerful  tail  through  the  snow  or  mud.  An 
otter's  tracks  in  the  snow  are  quite  unmistakable, 
and  frequently  go  for  long  distances  overland.  I 
have  heard  trappers  affirm  that  an  otter  will  travel 
seventy-five  miles  in  a  night,  by  crossing  overland 
from  one  headwater  to  another,  or  one  pond  to 
another.  While  so  great  a  distance  would  be  diffi- 
cult of  proof,  it  is  easily  proved  that  an  otter  will 
cross  several  land  miles  from  water  to  water,  and 
he  could  certainly  swim  the  remainder  of  the  dis- 
tance in  a  very  few  hours,  if  he  desired.  It  is  on 
their  portages,  as  it  were,  between  ponds  or  head- 
waters, that  the  trappers  usually  catch  them. 


The  otter  will  frisk  on  the  river-bank  like  a  puppy 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    253 

Sometimes  you  will  encounter  the  slides  on  the 
steep  river-bank  where  the  otters  play.  Like  seals, 
they  are  extremely  frisky  and  sportive,  and  will 
climb  a  bank  to  slide  down  into  the  water  by  the 
hour,  like  small  boys  on  a  sawdust  pile,  or  two  of 
them  will  pull  at  a  stick  like  a  couple  of  puppies. 
In  the  water  they  are  marvelous  swimmers,  and  can 
catch  any  fish  they  set  out  for.  Last  winter  a 
fisherman  on  Goose  Pond,  in  the  hills  back  of  Lee, 
Massachusetts,  caught  a  large  otter  on  a  hook. 
He  had  lost  three  baits,  and  finally  put  a  huge  one 
on  a  big  pickerel  hook.  He  got  a  strike  immedi- 
ately and  pulled. 

"I  thought  I  had  the  bottom  of  the  pond,"  he 
said,  exhibiting  the  four  feet  of  glossy,  seal-brown 
body  which  was  worth  more  to  him  than  any  fish. 

But  our  annual  catch  of  otters  now  is  relatively 
very  small,  and  few  are  the  younger  people  who  have 
ever  seen  an  otter  cub  playing  with  a  stick  in  the 
water  or  sliding  like  a  small  boy  down  a  slippery 
bank,  or  found  his  burrow  into  the  bank,  with  its 
entrance  below  water-level. 

Most  of  us,  however,  have  seen  a  skunk!  Indeed, 
that  family  is  fortunate  which  has  never  owned  a 
puppy  whose  natural  curiosity  led  him  to  investi- 
gate the  strange  visitor,  only  to  rush  half  blinded 
into  the  house,  searching  for  a  familiar  sympathy 
which  was  suddenly  and  rudely  denied  him.  It  is 
rather  odd  that  an  animal  so  actively  disagreeable 
as  the  skunk  can  be,  and  consequently  so  persist- 
ently shot  at,  should  so  successfully  survive  even 
close  to  populous  centers.  Probably  the  reason 
is  that  his  very  unpleasantness  makes  him  com- 


254  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

paratively  immune  to  molestation  by  other  animals, 
while  he  can  subsist  on  a  more  easily  acquired  diet 
than  the  much  more  formidable  weasel  or  mink. 
Far  less  active  than  either  of  his  cousins,  far  less 
clever  and  crafty,  you  will  see  ten  skunks  now^to 
one  weasel,  and  twenty  to  one  mink,  at  least  in  our 
section.  Skunks  are  easily  tamed,  it  is  said  (frankly 
I  never  domesticated  one),  and  are  not  necessarily 
offensive.  If  they  are  not  frightened  they  remain 
odorless.  Many  years  ago  the  proprietor  of  a 
Berkshire  hotel,  a  tender-hearted  man,  gave 
positive  orders  that  no  skunks  were  to  be  killed 
on  his  premises.  The  animals  used  to  come  up 
to  the  garbage-pails  behind  the  hotel  in  the  early 
evening  to  feed,  and  after  a  brief  season  of  pro- 
tection they  became  so  tame  that  the  guests 
would  go  out  to  watch  them,  as  you  go  out  to 
see  the  bears  behind  the  inns  in  Yellowstone  and 
Glacier  parks.  At  times  there  would  be  as  many 
as  a  dozen  skunks  in  the  yard.  But  this  pro- 
prietor is  dead  now,  and  the  custom  died  with 
him.  Skunks  still  come  up  to  the  garbage-pails 
in  our  town,  however.  In  winter  I  have  often 
found  their  tracks  around  mine,  and,  alas!  the  dog 
had  found  more  than  the  tracks.  They  also  breed 
near  our  dwellings. 

Not  long  ago,  at  the  golf  club,  we  were  troubled 
by  little  holes  appearing  in  a  certain  fairway  every 
morning,  just  large  enough  to  give  a  ball  a  heavy 
lie.  At  first  we  thought  the  crows  made  them,  but 
one  of  our  workmen  insisted  they  were  made  by 
skunks.  At  last  he  arose  very  early  and  saw  an 
animal  at  work.  We  did  not  find  its  hole,  however, 


If  he   is    not  frightened,   the   skunk  is  quite  inoffensive 
and  harmless 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    255 

for  some  days — not  until  a  foursome  was  astonished 
by  the  sight  of  three  little  black-and-white  kittens 
(as  they  first  thought  them)  playing  on  a  near-by 
putting-green.  These  kittens  were  so  tame  that 
they  allowed  the  caddies  to  touch  them,  while  the 
players,  with  adult  apprehensiveness,  kept  a  watch- 
ful eye  for  mamma.  The  kittens  presently  ran 
under  a  fence,  and  then  under  a  small  tool-house  in 
the  adjoining  cemetery.  A  benevolent  (and  some- 
what timid)  greens  committee  left  them  in  peace. 
Just  what  it  was  the  old  skunk  dug  from  the  turf  I 
was  never  able  to  determine ;  presumably  some  kind 
of  grub.  The  holes  she  made  were  about  an  inch 
deep,  and  of  nearly  the  same  diameter.  The  next 
season  there  was  no  nest  under  the  tool-house  and 
no  holes  in  the  fairway.  Skunks  also  eat  largely  of 
grasshoppers  and  similar  insects.  But,  like  their 
cousins,  they  are  quite  capable  of  destroying  chick- 
ens, and  a  skunk's  burrow  by  a  hen-yard  is  a  signal 
for  traps  and  gun.  My  boyhood  is  filled  with 
memories  of  days  when  the  death  of  a  skunk  meant 
a  family  exodus  to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and 
a  stern  parental  refusal  to  allow  me  to  skin  my 
quarry. 

The  skunk's  little  cousin,  the  weasel,  which  is  less 
than  a  foot  and  a  half  of  compact  muscle  and  fierce 
sagacity,  which  is  quick  as  lightning  and  as  sly  on 
the  hunt  almost  as  a  fox,  never  seems  to  have  been 
much  more  numerous  than  at  present.  It  is  for- 
tunate that  his  numbers  are  not  greater,  for  he  is  a 
bloodthirsty  beast,  quite  capable  of  killing  a  domes- 
tic hen,  a  sleeping  partridge  or  pheasant,  a  rabbit. 
He  is  hated  by  the  farmer  especially,  for  he  is  so  small 


256  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

that  it  is  almost  as  difficult  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
hen  yard  or  coop  as  it  would  be  to  exclude  a  squirrel ; 
he  is  shy  of  traps  and,  among  all  animals,  about  the 
most  troublesome  to  get  a  shot  at.  If  you  have 
ever  seen  a  weasel  poke  his  sharp  face  up  through  a 
stone  wall,  get  sight  or  scent  of  you  (he  works 
largely  by  scent),  and  then  travel  along  the  wall 
with  great  rapidity  to  get  out  of  danger,  you  will 
realize  his  cunning.  He  can  be  almost  snakelike 
in  his  bodily  movements  as  he  keeps  obstacles  be- 
tween you  and  him,  and  he  can  absolutely  disappear 
from  sight,  when  he  wishes,  with  uncanny  magic. 
I  have  seen  a  weasel  in  winter,  when  he  was  all  white 
except  the  black  end  of  his  tail,  sitting  on  a  stone 
wall.  I  have  seen  him  take  alarm  and  go  into  the 
wall  like  a  flash,  to  reappear  instantly  twenty  feet 
away,  and  then  to  reappear  once  more  clear  across 
an  open  space  of  snow,  which  you  would  swear  he 
could  not  possibly  have  crossed  without  your  seeing 
him. 

Weasels  progress  by  leaps,  doubling  up  their  bodies 
as  they  land,  so  that  the  hind  feet  track  in  the  front 
paw-marks,  and  in  the  snow  the  trail  looks  almost 
like  that  of  a  two-legged  creature.  When  undis- 
turbed or  at  leisure,  these  tracks  are  about  a  foot 
apart,  or  three-fourths  of  the  total  length  of  the  male 
animal.  (The  female  is  three  inches  shorter.)  But 
when  a  weasel  is  at  full  speed  he  can  make  ten  feet 
at  a  leap.  In  my  back  lot  in  winter  I  find  these 
tracks  most  frequently  around  the  brush-heaps  or 
straw  coverings  on  the  beds,  where  the  mice  live. 
But  they  also  run  through  a  swampy  growth  where 
there  are  rabbits.  It  is  not  infrequent  in  our  woods 


The  little  weasel  is  a  cunning  and  elusive  marauder 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    257 

to  come  upon  a  dead  rabbit  which  has  been  killed 
by  a  weasel  and  his  warm  blood  sucked  from  the 
neck. 

The  mink  is  four  or  five  inches  longer  than  the 
weasel,  remains  a  dark  brown,  almost  a  black,  the 
year  through,  and  lives  chiefly  near  water,  in 
which  he  swims  and  hunts  with  almost  the  speed 
and  more  than  the  craftiness  of  the  otter.  It  was 
not  many  years  ago  that  a  family  of  mink  hunted 
in  the  Bronx  Creek  where  it  flows  through  the  Zoo, 
and  lived  high  on  the  water-fowl  caged  there,  re- 
sisting all  traps  and  guns.  Their  beady  eyes  are 
sharp  and  intelligent,  their  agile  bodies  trim  and 
extraordinarily  supple,  and  to  see  one  of  them  at 
work  by  a  stream-side,  unaware  of  you  as  you  lie, 
perhaps,  down  wind  in  a  duck-blind,  or  sitting 
quietly  with  a  rod,  is  to  get  a  peep  at  the  cruelty 
and  grace  of  nature  strangely  combined. 

It  is  hard  to  get  a  good  'coon  dog  nowadays,  I  am 
told — at  least  in  our  part  of  the  world.  Personally, 
I'm  not  sorry,  for  you  cannot  have  your  'coon  and 
eat  him,  too.  A  good  many  factors  are  combining, 
indeed,  to  make  our  Northern  world  safer  for  'coon 
democracy.  The  'coons  are  hunted  less  (possibly 
because  automobiles  are  making  us  more  and  more 
averse  to  hard  physical  labor) ;  the  forests  are  more 
and  .more  losing  their  pine  at  the  hands  of  the  lum- 
bermen and  coming  into  hardwoods,  which  give  the 
animals  nesting-places;  and  the  'coons,  unlike  the 
weasels,  for  instance,  can  vary  their  diet  to  embrace 
vegetable  products,  especially  corn,  of  which  they 
are  extremely  fond.  Then,  too,  they  hibernate  in 
winter,  which  is  a  great  protection,  and  here  in  the 


258 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

North  we  have  never  achieved  the  humorous,  imagi- 
native semi-personification  of  the  'coon  which  the 


Trees  are  the  instinctive  refuge  of  the  'coon 

negroes  have  imposed  on  the  South,  to  make  the 
little  creature  doubly  desirable.  Certain  it  is,  at 
any  rate,  that  the  'coons  are  still  numerous  in  our 


FOXES    AND    OTHER    NEIGHBORS    259 

Northern  hillside  forests,  and  I  have  found  the 
tracks  of  their  hind  paws,  like  the  mark  of  a  tiny 
shriveled  baby's  foot,  in  the  spring  mud,  not  over  a 
mile  from  a  populous  Berkshire  village. 

The  'coon  gains  immunity  from  dogs  and  foxes 
by  his  ability  to  climb  trees,  and  he  also  gains  much 
food  thereby,  for  he  robs  birds'  nests  and  probably 
even  captures  sleeping  birds  at  perch.  In  a  tree 
he  can  be  almost  as  craftily  invisible  as  a  weasel 
in  a  wall. 

'Coons  are  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  and  there- 
fore not  hard  to  catch  in  a  box  trap.  Once  caught, 
they  are  easily  tamed,  at  least  to  a  state  of  acquies- 
cence, not  pining  as  a  fox  often  does,  nor  remaining 
savage  and  resentful  like  a  wildcat.  In  captivity 
you  can  watch  them  obeying  one  of  their  most 
curious  instincts,  which  is  to  wash  all  meat  before 
eating  it.  No  matter  if  they  see  you  wash  it  first, 
they  must  perform  the  operation  themselves. 
They  take  the  meat  scrap  in  their  front  paws,  like 
a  squirrel,  and  then  slosh  it  back  and  forth  in  the 
water,  sometimes  till  it  is  white  and  pulpy.  I  well 
remember  camping  once  on  the  shore  of  the  Lake  of 
the  Dismal  Swamp  and  hearing  in  the  still  night  the 
faint  sound  of  little  swishes  in  the  water  not  far 
away,  apparently  close  inshore.  In  the  morning  we 
investigated  the  mud  beach  and  found  a  dozen 
or  more  'coon  tracks  leading  down  to  and  away 
from  the  water's  edge.  Unfortunately,  though 
there  was  a  bright  moon  for  several  nights,  the 
thick  mist  always  lay  three  feet  deep  over  the  face 
of  the  lake,  and  we  never  got  a  chance  to  wa.tch 
them. 


26o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

"Varmints,"  the  Yankee  farmers  used  to  call 
these  animals  of  the  wild  which  ate  their  chickens 
or  destroyed  their  crops.  Presumably  the  mild, 
vegetarian  woodchuck  was  included  in  the  epithet, 
however  incorrectly.  But  we  are  slowly  learning 
that  the  balance  of  nature  is  something  which  should 
not  be  too  rudely  disturbed  without  careful  investi- 
gation. We  have  learned  the  lesson — a  costly  one — 
with  regard  to  our  slaughtered  forests  and  shrunken 
water-powers.  We  are  learning  it  with  regard  to 
our  birds.  And  it  is  certainly  not  beyond  the  range 
of  possibility  that  the  varmints — the  flesh-eating 
animals  like  foxes,  weasels,  'coons,  and  skunks — per- 
form their  useful  functions,  too,  in  their  ceaseless 
preying  upon  rodents,  rabbits,  and  the  like,  more 
than  atoning  for  their  occasional  predatory  visits  to 
the  chicken-roost.  At  any  rate,  who  that  loves  the 
woods  and  streams  does  not  love  them  the  more 
when  the  patient  wait  or  the  silent  approach  is 
rewarded  by  the  sight  of  some  wild  inhabitant  about 
his  secret  business,  or  when  the  telltale  snows  of 
winter  reveal  the  story  of  last  night's  hunt,  or  when 
the  still,  cold  air  of  the  winter  evenings  is  startled 
by  the  cry  of  a  fox,  as  he  sits,  perhaps,  on  a  knoll 
above  the  dry  weed-tops  in  the  field  and  bays  the 
moon?  To  me,  at  least,  the  woods  untenanted  by 
their  natural  inhabitants  are  as  melancholy  as  a 
deserted  village,  an  abandoned  farm,  and  I  would 
readily  sacrifice  twenty  chickens  a  year  to  know  that 
I  maintained  thereby  a  family  of  foxes  under  my 
wall,  living  their  sly,  shrewd  life  in  frisky  happiness, 
against  all  the  odds  of  man. 

My  next-door  neighbor  has  recently  had  an  ex- 


FOXES  AND   OTHER  NEIGHBORS    261 

perience  which  made  him  think  more  of  the  cruelty 
and  less  of  the  grace.  Four  of  his  ducks  got  out  of 
the  pen  one  day  and  waddled  down  to  the  brook. 
He  did  not  discover  their  loss  till  morning,  and  set 
out  after  them.  Two  of  them  were  swimming 
around,  one  had  disappeared  completely,  and  the 
fourth  lay  half  on  the  bank,  half  in  the  water,  dead, 
its  throat  torn  and  bitten.  He  left  its  body  as  a  bait 
and  set  three  traps  around  it.  But  though  he 
caught  first  a  crow  and  then  a  marsh-hawk,  which 
dropped  down  to  investigate,  he  never  got  the  mink. 
It  is  only  the  craftiest  trapper  who  can  get  a  mink; 
and  great  his  rejoicing  now  when  he  does,  for  the 
prime  skins  are  bringing  double  figures.  After  all, 
the  hunter  is  not  alone  to  blame  if  our  wild  life 
disappears.  His  wife  has  much  to  answer  for. 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES 

TO  paraphrase  Butler's  remark  about  the 
strawberry  (was  it  Butler's?),  doubtless  God 
could  have  made  something  more  beautiful 
than  a  tree,  but  doubtless  He  never  did.  In  my 
boyhood,  it  seemed  a  little  curious  to  me  that  a  cer- 
tain man  in  our  town  should  employ  his  Sundays 
going  around  the  country  photographing  our  best 
trees,  interviewing  "old  settlers"  to  ascertain  the 
date  they  were  planted,  and  finally  writing  a  little 
book  about  them,  illustrated  with  his  photographs. 
The  book,  privately  printed,  was  eagerly  procured 
and  read  by  my  father,  who  detected  an  error  of 
fact  on  page  37,  regarding  the  span  of  the  Nathaniel 
Emerson  oak,  which  resulted  in  much  controversy, 
and  finally  in  a  trip  to  the  Emerson  place  with  a  tape, 
and  the  discovery  that  one  of  the  lateral  branches 
had  been  cut  off  some  way  back  from  the  tip,  be- 
cause it  was  threatening  the  chimney  of  the  house. 
So  my  parent  and  the  author  were  both  right.  Now 
as  I  leave  boyhood  farther  and  farther  behind,  it 
seems  less  and  less  curious  to  me  that  anybody 
should  spend  his  leisure  in  the  gentle  contemplation 
of  trees  or  become  excited  over  their  dimensions. 
In  fact,  it  seems  curious  to  me  that  anybody  should 
find  such  occupation  curious. 

My  Berkshire  house  sits  at  the  head  of  an  ancient 
orchard  and  looks,  on  one  side,  up  a  steep,  high, 


IN    PRAISE    OF   TREES 263 

densely  wooded  mountain  shoulder;  on  the  other, 
over  rolling  fields  plumed  with  maples  and  sen- 
tineled with  little  cedars,  to  the  pines  on  a  hill  and 
the  wall  of  tamaracks  edging  the  great  swamp. 
Trees  are  my  cloud  of  witnesses.  Ever  they  sur- 
round me,  and  from  the  once  contemptibly  familiar 
they  have  become,  to  eyes  grown  wiser  in  seeking 
beauty  and  solace  in  the  familiar,  a  constant  source 
of  charm  and  wonder  and  delight ;  and  of  pride,  too, 
for  our  North  American  trees,  our  thrice  familiar 
Yankee  trees,  are  as  beautiful  as  any  in  the  world, 
and  just  as  we  once  went  far  astray  in  our  architect- 
ure from  the  native  style  we  should  have  developed, 
so  in  our  landscape  gardening  we  went  astray — far 
astray — from  the  lessons  our  own  trees  might  have 
taught  us. 

Oddly,  perhaps,  winter  is  the  season  to  begin  the 
study  of  trees,  pictorially  considered,  as  the  archi- 
tect must  base  his  work  on  knowledge  of  the  frame, 
the  anatomist  on  knowledge  of  the  skeleton.  A 
skeleton,  however,  is  hardly  a  lovely  thing  to  con- 
template, in  a  closet  or  elsewhere.  But  a  leafless 
tree  is  wonderful  and  fair.  I  once  studied  "fine 
arts"  under  a  pupil  of  Ruskin  (may  one  still  speak 
of  Ruskin?).  Aside  from  learning  that  Beacon  Hill 
purple  window-panes  were  not  originally  purple,  but 
have  been  tinted  by  a  century  of  sun,  like  the  win- 
dows of  Chartres  and  Amiens,  and  also  acquiring 
some  very  slight  proficiency  in  handling  a  paint- 
brush, I  cannot  say  that  I  greatly  benefited  by  this 
course  of  study,  except  in  one  unforgetable  respect. 
I  learned,  from  a  chance  remark  of  Ruskin' s,  quoted 
by  my  teacher  and  illustrated  by  one  of  "the  mas- 


264  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

ter's"  water-color  sketches,  that  the  "line  of  life" 
exemplified  by  a  naked  twig  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  in  nature — as  well  as  one  of  the 
most  difficult  to  delineate.  To  make  a  faithful 
study  of  a  naked  elm  or  sugar-maple,  or  even /)f 
a  lowly  shrub,  is  to  learn  humbleness  of  wrist  and 
boundless  respect  for  the  marvelous  rhythms  of 
nature.  Consider  any  branch,  from  trunk  to  tip, 
and  see  how  individual  are  its  various  seasons  of 
growth,  and  yet  how  the  impulse  of  growth,  the 
constant  extension  of  itself,  its  reaching  outward 
or  upward,  its  life-line,  unifies  each  separate  curve, 
or  twist,  or  rhythm,  into  the  perfect,  indivisible 
whole.  A  slender  twig,  or  a  forty-foot  tree  limb, 
has,  when  carefully  considered,  the  same  effect 
on  the  eye  that  a  perfect,  spontaneous,  completed 
phrase  of  melody  has  on  the  ear.  It  flows  and 
grows,  through  variation,  to  the  completed  whole 
that  binds  each  bar  to  the  predestined  master 
rhythm. 

Out  in  a  pasture  not  many  miles  from  my  house 
stands  a  big  hop  hornbeam,  an  unusual  specimen, 
at  least  with  us,  for  the  hornbeams,  as  a  rule,  are 
found  chiefly  near  the  swamps,  in  thick  mixed  stands 
where  they  do  not  reach  large  diameter  and  resemble, 
in  bark,  an  elm.  The  other  day  just  the  right  light 
cut  this  hornbeam's  crown  against  the  sky,  with 
its  massive  trunk  against  the  red  and  gray  of  a  dis- 
tant snowy  mountain.  I  greeted  the  old  fellow 
with  real  affection,  for  he  had  never  before  seemed 
so  rugged,  so  massive,  so  eloquent  of  his  myriad 
struggles  for  existence — since  each  limb  and  twig 
is,  after  all,  but  a  sign  of  struggle  for  air  and  nour- 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES 


265 


ishment.      His  lower  branches,  forced  out  horizon- 
tally, or  even  downward,  by  the  shade  of  the  top, 


The  massive  trunk  of  a  hornbeam  against  the  red  and  gray  of 
a  distant  snowy  mountain 

seemed  actually  to  writhe  in  their  efforts  to  reach 
out  to  the  sun,  and  were  full  of  sharp  crooks,  each 


266  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

change  of  direction  a  tentative  quest  for  the  way 
out  of  the  shadow,  yet  all  the  crooks  and  turns  uni- 
fied by  the  impulse  to  grow,  to  keep  on,  each  limb 
a  living  melody.  Where  the  great  trunk  broke  into 
limbs  was  solid  strength;  where  these  limbs,  reach- 
ing ever  upward,  finally  dissolved  in  spray  against 
the  blue-gray  sky  was  lacelike  delicacy — a  resonant 
major  chord,  a  whisper  on  the  strings.  I  could 
not  find  a  limb  that  was  uninteresting,  a  limb  that, 
if  followed  to  its  end,  did  not  give  the  eye  that  sat- 
isfaction of  a  living  line  which  knows  from  the 
beginning  where  it  is  going  and  is  ever  on  the  way. 
And  what  a  self-sufficient  personality  the  whole  tree 
had! 

An  even  more  interesting  tree,  I  think,  is  a  huge 
old  sycamore  I  pass  on  the  way  to  the  village.  The 
sycamore,  of  course,  gains  a  winter  charm  (and,  to 
a  less  extent,  a  summer  charm)  over  other  trees, 
because  of  its  mottled  bark,  the  great  bare  patches 
of  ivory-white,  or  even  paper-white,  alternating 
with  a  soft  snuff -brown  on  trunk  and  limbs.  It 
ascends  smoothly,  too,  from  its  wide  base,  without 
shouldering  roots,  giving  it  a  certain  air  of  trim 
ease,  even  when  it  is  a  huge  old  giant.  But  my  syca- 
more on  the  village  road,  more  than  any  I  have  ever 
seen,  has  an  oddity  of  branch  growth  which  makes 
me  tip  my  head  back  every  time  I  pass  it  and  look 
up  to  its  ninety-foot-high  top.  Growing  in  the 
open,  it  has  a  perfectly  symmetrical  crown,  and  the 
mottled  limbs,  after  they  have  reached  the  slender- 
ness,  say,  of  your  wrist,  begin  to  progress  in  a  series 
of  explosions,  each  explosion  sending  out  several 
branchlets,  exactly  as  you  have  seen  a  rocket  burst 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES  267 

in  air  and  send  out  several  stars  which  trail  a  line 
of  light  behind  them  till  they,  too,  burst  and  send 


The   sycamore   gains  a  winter  charm  over  other  trees  because 
of  its  mottled  bark 

out  yet  more  stars.      Yet,  far  from  being  freakish, 
this  sycamore  is  greatly  admired  both  for  its  size 


268  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

and  beauty,  and  does  not  impress  the  casual  ob- 
server as  in  any  way  odd.  So  successful  is  a  grow- 
ing limb,  by  means  of  its  line  of  life,  in  maintaining 
the  pleasing  effect  of  unity. 

The  sycamore,  in  winter  or  summer,  is  a  beauti* 
ful  tree,  even  the  younger  and  slenderer  ones  show- 
ing something  of  this  tendency  to  explode  their  new 
shoots,  and  opening  out  their  heads  with  wide-flung 
branches  from  the  straight  trunk  which  persists  to 
the  top,  as  if  to  disclose  the  charm  of  the  mottled 
bark,  even  through  the  foliage.  Yet,  save  for  the 
village  of  Bedford,  in  Westchester  County,  New 
York,  I  cannot  recall  a  single  town  here  in  the  East 
which  has  planted  sycamores  as  an  adornment 
(those  in  Bedford  must  be  almost  as  old  as  the  town- 
ship), nor  a  single  use  made  of  them  in  my  part  of 
the  world  as  a  conscious  addition  to  the  landscape. 
Those  we  have  are  mostly  chance  survivals  down 
along  the  river  meadows,  while  we  set  out  imported 
exotics,  or,  still  oftener,  appear  to  think  that  land- 
scape architecture  exists  rather  for  people  who  never 
lift  their  eyes  above  chin  level  and  should  consist 
of  flower-beds  and  foreign  shrubs. 

One  trouble  is,  of  course,  that  neither  Rome  nor 
a  sycamore  was  built  in  a  day.  It  takes  fifty  years 
to  mature  a  white  pine  sufficiently  to  make  an  im- 
pressive tree,  seventy-five  years  to  mature  an  elm, 
fifty  years  for  a  rock-maple,  and  I  don't  know  how 
many  years  for  a  white  oak  or  a  cedar.  One  of  my 
biggest  apple-trees,  a  grand  old  fellow  about  forty 
feet  tall,  with  a  trunk  three  feet  through  and  mus- 
cular, sprawling  branches,  developed  a  bad  frost 
crack  not  long  ago,  which  killed  it,  and  the  other 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES  269 

day  I  sadly  hewed  it  down — no  slight  task — and 
worked  it  up  into  a  cord  of  wood.  The  stump  showed 
it  to  be  between  seventy -five  and  a  hundred  years 
old.  As  my  house  was  built  in  1829,  it  was  probably 
set  out  at  about  the  same  time,  and  was  three  gen- 
erations in  developing  into  a  fine  old  ornament  to 
the  lawn  and  dwelling.  Since  we  Americans  have 
been  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  wait  three  generations 
for  our  landscape  effects,  and  since  few  of  our  fam- 
ilies ever  live  on  the  same  place  even  for  two  gener- 
ations, about  the  only  way  to  achieve  fine  trees 
around  your  house  would  seem  to  be  to  buy  a  piece 
of  forest — if  you  can  find  even  forest  trees  now 
more  than  thirty  years  old! 

Yet  the  same  road  to  the  village  which  passes  by 
the  great  sycamore  runs  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
through  a  swampy  wood,  and  on  this  stretch  is 
found  an  arboreal  effect  so  entirely  artless,  charm- 
ing, and  spontaneous  that  I  frequently  pause  to 
observe  it,  thinking  at  the  same  time  of  a  certain 
million-dollar  estate  in  our  most  "fashionable"  re- 
sort town  where  exotic  Lombardy  poplars  have  been 
planted  in  formal,  naked  rows  with  no  resultant 
charm  whatever.  Fringing  the  road  on  either  side 
are  tall  brake,  joepye-weed,  asters,  red  osier  dog- 
wood, and  the  like,  a  flower  border  in  the  warmer 
months,  a  fringe  of  tracery  above  the  snow  in  winter. 
Just  behind  these  borders  stand,  in  casual,  irregular 
rows,  slender  olive  poplars,  rising  to  forest  height 
because  they  are  crowded  from  behind  by  the  hem- 
locks of  the  swamp.  Scattered  through  them  are  a 
few  gray  American  hornbeams  (ironwood),  and  a 
few  shad-bushes  and  swamp-maples,  to  dress  the 


270 


IN    BERKSHIRE   FIELDS 


forest  edge  in  spring  and  autumn;  but  the  poplars 
predominate,  and  especially  on  a  cloudy  day,  or  a 


Slender  olive  poplars  rising  to  forest  height  crowded  from  behind 
by  the  hemlocks  of  the  swamp 

day  of  hazy  sun  when  the  steam  of  a  February  thaw 
is  in  the  air,  they  march   along  in  ghostly  slen- 


IN    PRAISE   OF   TREES  271 

derness  against  the  dark  backing  of  the  hemlocks, 
just  warmed  enough  by  the  yellow  in  their  bark  to 
remove  all  mournful  suggestion,  as  graceful  and 
upright  and  tapering  a  screen  for  a  winding  drive 
as  you  could  well  conceive,  as  beautiful  in  winter  as 
in  spring  or  summer.  Why  any  human  being  should 
desire  to  plant  bare,  ruled  rows  of  Lombardy  pop- 
lars beside  a  mathematically  straight  drive,  when 
our  own  native  landscape  supplies  him  with  such 
a  model,  passes  my  comprehension.  Nor  are  these 
particular  woods  old.  Twenty-five  to  thirty  years 
ago,  I  find,  the  swamp  was  cut  over,  only  a  few  big 
hemlocks  and  pines  being  left  as  seed-bearers. 

For  several  years  we  lived  in  a  small  house,  set 
well  back  from  the  village  street  in  a  five-acre  lot. 
It  was  not  a  pretty  house — in  fact,  it  was  an  ugly 
house.  But  few  visitors  noticed  this,  certainly  after 
the  first  glance.  Some  one,  presumably  our  land- 
lord's father,  forty-five  or  fifty  years  before  we 
inhabited  it,  had  set  out  trees,  and  set  them  out 
wisely.  In  front,  for  a  screen,  were  hemlocks,  with 
a  canoe-birch  to  show  its  white  slenderness  against 
the  evergreen  backing;  several  Norway  spruces, 
which  had  attained  such  size  that  their  stiff  sym- 
metry was  broken  and  their  mournfulness  somewhat 
eliminated,  and  which  chanced  here  not  to  seem 
unduly  exotic  because  at  the  same  period  they  had 
been  planted  all  over  the  village,  and  occupied  a 
definite  place  in  the  local  landscape;  and,  finally, 
a  huge  old  locust,  with  lightning-stab  branches — a 
veteran,  of  course,  which  had  stood  there  for  a  cen- 
tury or  more,  like  the  row  of  elms  beside  the  road. 
Beside  the  house  were  two  crooked  old  apple- 


272 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

trees,  too  close  together  for  ideal  fruit,  but  forming 
a  roof  of  shade  right  up  to  the  dining-porch,  a  roof 
groined  with  interesting,  gnarled  ribs.  Then,  best 
of  all,  not  ten  feet  from  the  porch,  in  a  kind  of 
corner  between  it  and  a  one-story  wing  of  the  house, 
were  three  big  pines.  Their  roots  got  the  water 
from  a  gutter-spout,  and  they  had  made  a  fine 
growth,  so  that  as  you  sat  on  the  porch  you  saw 
only  three  straight  brown  columns  rising  up  from  a 
dense  woodland  carpet  of  red-brown  needles  and 
green  ferns.  You  looked  between  these  columns,  as 
well  as  under  the  shade  of  the  apple-trees,  out  to 
the  sun-soaked,  color-filled  garden  beyond.  Above 
the  dining-porch  was  a  second-story  porch  for  sleep- 
ing, and  into  this  porch  the  pines  almost  thrust  their 
first  whispering  branches,  and  against  it  the  apple- 
trees  in  May  dusted  their  perfume.  The  roof  of 
the  little  ell,  under  the  pines,  was  green  with  moss 
in  which  falling  needles  caught.  I  well  remember 
our  amusement  once  (a  little  mixed  with  chagrin!) 
when  the  editor  of  a  certain  garden  magazine  came 
to  visit  us  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  give  more 
than  casual  inspection  to  the  garden,  because  he 
was  so  taken  with  the  charm  of  those  mossy  shingles, 
the  brown  columns  of  the  pines,  and  the  tiny  surf  of 
needles,  as  it  were,  lapping  against  the  edge  of  the 
unrailed  porch.  But  not  only  were  these  trees  a 
delightful  feature  of  the  prospect  from  the  porch, 
and  in  summer  a  cooling  refreshment,  in  winter  a 
wind-break;  from  the  garden  they  effectively  con- 
cealed the  bad  lines  of  the  house,  disclosing  only 
a  chimney,  a  pitch  of  roof,  a  bit  of  red  wall,  a  porch 
pillar,  and  a  chair  with  a  bright  cushion  on  it. 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES  273 

Every  tree  helped,  but  the  three  pines  most  of  all, 
towering  as  they  did  far  above  the  dwelling  on 
their  splendid  brown  sterns.  It  cost  the  man  who 
planted  them  very  slight  effort  to  put  them  in, 
though  doubtless  in  his  lifetime  he  saw  but  little  of 
their  ultimate  charm.  Yet  for  the  next  generation 
they  were  a  constant  solace  and  delight. 

Then  the  house  was  sold  out  of  that  family.  We, 
after  seven  years  of  affectionate  living  with  those 
trees,  bade  them  a  regretful  farewell,  though  we 
were  moving  to  a  place  of  our  own,  toward,  at  least, 
the  realization  of  a  long-cherished  dream.  Return- 
ing after  several  weeks  on  some  errand,  and  also,  I 
fear,  to  steal  a  last  look  at  the  garden  I  was  leaving 
behind,  I  saw  something  was  wrong  even  as  I  walked 
up  the  street.  Yet  I  couldn't  believe  my  own  senses. 
Hurrying  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  however, 
the  worst  was  confirmed.  The  three  great  pines, 
which  for  fifty  years  had  been  growing  their  bravest 
and  quickest  to  convert  an  ugly  house  into  a  spot 
of  beauty,  to  give  it  tone  and  character,  to  bring 
close  to  its  occupants,  even  as  they  sat  on  their 
porch,  the  inspiration  of  noble,  columned  uprights, 
the  fragrance  of  blown  needles,  the  whisper  cf  the 
forest,  lay  shivered  and  sprawling  on  the  turf,  one 
of  them,  in  its  fall,  having  half  demolished  one  of 
the  big  apple-trees  that  had  made  an  outdoor  sum- 
mer room  beside  the  porch !  The  house  stood  ugly, 
naked,  pitilessly  exposed.  It  might  have  been  any 
house  on  a  raw  suburban  street.  The  new  owner, 
with  a  bland  smile  of  self-satisfaction,  came  out  to 
explain.  He  said  the  pines  kept  the  house  damp! 
(In  seven  years  we  had  never  detected  this,  by  the 


274 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

way.)  Then,  seeing  my  face,  he  added,  "I  suppose 
you  think  I  ought  to  have  left  them?'* 

There  are  moments  when  one  regrets  the  inhibi- 
tions of  courtesy! 

I  presume  by  now  he  has  reshingled  the  ell,  al^o. 
Which  naturally  makes  me  think  of  the  Poindexter 
sisters.  When  the  Poindexter  sisters  first  moved 
into  the  small  cottage  they  bought  on  the  one  street 
of  the  little  village,  they  attracted  the  attention  of 
their  neighbors  by  tugging  pails  of  earth  right  into 
the  house  from  the  garden,  and  then  reappearing  at 
the  second-story  front  windows,  whence  they  pro- 
ceeded to  throw  the  dirt  out  upon  the  roof  of  the 
porch.  Naturally  they  were  at  once  pronounced 
"queer."  But  queerer,  less  understandable  still, 
were  their  subsequent  actions.  They  went  to  the 
woods  for  moss  and  wild  flowers,  and  then,  to  the 
complete  amazement  of  the  village,  planted  these 
things  on  the  shingles!  The  process  was  completed 
by  the  acquisition  of  several  Virginia  creepers,  set  in 
against  the  pillars  below. 

The  village  thought  something  certainly  should 
be  done  about  it,  so  the  carpenter,  a  kindly  man  and 
an  authority,  naturally,  called  to  remonstrate,  warn- 
ing them  that  the  dirt  and  moss  would  rot  the  roof. 

"Then  we'll  get  you  to  build  us  a  new  one,"  the 
Poindexter  sisters  assured  him.  "We've  got  to  have 
moss  on  our  roof,  and  we  just  can't  wait  for  a  tree 
to  grow  and  shadow  the  house,  and  make  the  moss." 

"But  what  do  you  want  moss  on  your  roof  for?" 
the  poor  man  asked.  "It  '11  make  it  leak." 

4  We  can  put  up  umbrellas,"  the  sisters  replied. 
"We  must  have  moss!" 


IN    PRAISE    OF   TREES  275 

They  got  their  moss.  Now  it  is  six  inches  deep, 
and  the  creepers  have  crept  up  the  pillars,  climbed 
over  the  edge,  and  mingled  their  green  with  the 
velvet.  After  a  dozen  years  several  people  in  the 
village  privately  confess  (behind  locked  doors)  that 
they  like  it.  Everybody  likes  the  Poindexter  sisters 

— "the  Girls,"  we  call  them.     Still,  they  are  queer 

—imagine  throwing  dirt.  .  .  . 

But  to  return  to  the  subject  of  pines.  The  white 
pine,  of  course,  needs  no  encomium,  as  Daniel  Web- 
ster said  of  Massachusetts.  Few  of  our  generation, 
to  be  sure,  to  say  nothing  of  the  generations  coming 
up  behind  us,  have  ever  seen  white  pines  at  their 
best.  The  virgin  stands  that  once  dotted  our  hills 
and  valleys  are  no  more,  and  it  will  have  to  be  an- 
other two  or  three  hundred  years  before  our  descend- 
ants can,  in  some  state  reservation,  perhaps,  see 
again  those  vast  cathedral  aisles,  those  massive- 
based,  aspiring  uprights  shooting  skyward  seventy- 
five  feet  without  a  limb,  and  bearing  their  plumed 
tops  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  to  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  above  the  earth,  feel  again  the  awe  and 
hush  of  such  a  forest  where  the  foot  fell  silent  on 
brown  needles  and  the  wind  soughed  so  high  aloft 
it  was  but  a  far-off  whisper.  I  know  of  but  one  such 
grove  hereabouts — in  Cornwall,  Connecticut,  which 
some  miracle  has  preserved  from  the  ax  of  man. 
Sons  of  mine,  if  I  had  them,  should  make  pilgrim- 
ages to  it  every  year!  But  we  all  know  the  beauty 
of  columnar  pine  aisles  on  a  lesser  scale,  as  well  as 
the  beauty  of  the  single  old  tree  which  grew  in  the 
open,  free  to  throw  out  its  level,  lateral  branches  like 
a  cedar  of  Lebanon,  and,  if  it  stands  on  some  ex- 


276  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

posed  ledge,  to  fight  the  north  winds  bravely  till  it 
leans  a  bit  to  their  buffets,  its  longer  branches 
streaming  southward,  its  northern  side  sheared  off 
by  the  storms,  the  very  picture  of  triumphant ;  if 
battered,  pugnacity.  How  such  an  old  pine  befits 
a  mountainous  landscape,  a  place  of  rocks  and 
windy  sweeps!  How  much  more  seemly  and  beau- 
tiful it  is  for  true  landscape  gardening  in  a  ledgy  land 
than  all  the  flower-beds  and  clumps  of  hydrangeas 
you  could  plant !  The  grouped  pines,  too,  with  their 
predominant  effect  of  columned  architecture,  with 
their  dagger  stabs  of  sunset  light  between  the  trunks 
or  little  upright  canvases  glimpsed  through  cool 
shadow,  make  one  of  the  most  splendid  garden 
screens  in  all  the  world.  I  well  recall  a  certain  pine 
grove  in  our  country  which  is  on  the  farther  side  of 
an  orchard,  the  apple-trees  growing  right  up  to  the 
edge.  In  winter  the  contrast  between  the  lower, 
irregular  apple  -  trees,  their  lines  picked  out  with 
snow,  and  the  green  pines  is  charming,  and  in  May, 
when  they  are  bouquets  of  pink  and  white  bloom, 
you  would  go  far  to  see  them.  The  edge  of  a  pine 
stand  is  ever  a  fascinating  thing,  indeed,  for  a  cer- 
tain mystery  invites  from  the  perpetual  seashell 
murmur,  the  cool  shadows,  the  columnar  aisles. 
When  in  winter  the  snow  washes  up  to  the  feet  of 
the  pines,  like  surf,  and  through  it  the  fringe  of 
shrubs  and  dead  goldenrod  and  other  weed-tops 
makes  a  fairy  tracery  of  blown,  curling  spray, 
some  white  path  into  the  quietude  invites  your 
feet  as  nothing  else,  and  peace  like  a  benediction 
seems  to  fall  with  the  seashell  murmur  from 
above,  or  the  soft,  tiny  tinkle  of  needles  broken 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES 


277 


off  by  the  weight  of  snow.  I  know  people  who 
affirm  that  " pines  are  mournful/' and  would  im- 
prove their  estates  by  cutting  them  down  instead 


In  winter  the  contrast  between  the  lower  irregular  apple-trees 
and  the  green  pines  is  charming 


278 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


of  properly  planting  them.  But  such  people  would 
doubtless  prefer  a  motion-picture  facade  to  the 
Temple  of  Karnak. 


\ 


Through  the  curling  spray  of  the  weed-tops  some  white  path 
into  the  quietude  invites  your  feet 


IN    PRAISE   OF    TREES  279 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  tree  which,  with  us,  in 
a  wild  state  is  the  least  formal  of  all,  is  most  for- 
mally treated  when  used  in  gardening — the  cedar. 
Largely,  no  doubt,  because  of  Italian  influence,  we 
employ  cedars  in  formal  groupings,  as  fountain 
backs,  to  half -ring  a  bench  at  the  end  of  a  vista,  and 
the  like.  The  slender,  compact,  tufty,  architectural 
pyramid  of  the  cedar  is,  of  course,  extremely  effec- 
tive for  such  work.  But  still  I  think  its  best  employ- 
ment in  landscape  gardening  has  been  so  far  neglect- 
ed, and  consists  merely  in  reproducing  its  natural 
habits.  What  those  habits  are  I  can  show  you  by  a 
walk  down  many  a  happily  neglected  back  road,  or 
even  from  my  windows,  where  we  look  out  at  the 
rocky  slopes  of  the  old  sheep-pasture.  Along  the 
back  road,  oftentimes,  the  birds  which  perched  upon 
some  now  vanished  fence  planted,  it  may  be,  a 
double  row  of  cedars,  at  pleasantly  irregular  inter- 
vals, which  march  along  beside  you  as  you  tramp. 
But,  between  them,  looking  over  the  ledges,  or 
through  the  vista,  looking  into  the  field  that  fronts 
the  next  bend,  you  will  see  their  happiest  effects, 
for  here  they  stand,  in  casual  array,  like  slim,  dark 
sentinels,  their  feet  fixed  firmly  where  other  trees 
would  get  no  nourishment,  perhaps,  their  slender 
spires  rising  above  the  snow  or  the  shrubbery  like 
village  steeples  above  the  town,  their  rich,  deep 
color  note,  alike  in  summer  and  winter,  picking  out 
and  accentuating  the  values  of  the  landscape.  Their 
effectiveness  begins,  too,  when  they  are  very  small — 
you  do  not  have  to  wait.  If  any  one  wants  to  bring 
them  into  a  formal  scheme,  well  and  good,  for  they 
fit  it.  But  when  they  grow  as  nature  planted  them, 


280 


IN    BERKSHIRE.  FIELDS 


informally,  casually,  up  rocky  slopes  and  on  pasture 
stubble,  they  are  at  their  best.  My  old  sheep  past- 
ure, with  its  bare  white  patches  of  exposed  lime- 


Along  the  back  road  a  double  row  of  cedars  march  along  beside 
you  as  you  tramp 


WALTER 

K'lWGr 


White  birches  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  shooting  their  slender- 
ness  upward 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES 281 

stone,  its  pools  of  prickly  yew,  its  chocolate  shrubby 
cinquefoil,  and  standing  everywhere  in  the  midst 
the  dark  little  cedars,  slim  and  watchful,  is  the 
most  charming  spot  on  my  farm.  Nobody  could 
improve  it — he  could  only  strive  to  copy. 

I  think  we  have  scarcely  as  yet  begun  to  realize, 
in  our  landscape  architecture,  the  part  trees  play  in 
accentuating  or  harmonizing  those  larger  contours 
of  the  land  which  give  us  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 
I  came  upon  a  bold  and  striking  effect  the  other  day 
in  which  certain  trees  played  an  all-important  part. 
Cresting  a  sharp,  snowy  ridge,  I  looked  over  a  drop 
to  the  valley,  and  saw,  beyond,  the  peak  of  a  moun- 
tain, its  lines  almost  reproducing  the  lines  of  the 
ridge  directly  before  me.  The  result  would  have 
been  uninteresting,  if  not  monotonous,  had  it  not 
been  for  certain  trees.  But  almost  at  the  top  of 
the  ridge  was  a  sizable  hemlock,  the  leader  of  others 
the  tops  of  which  could  be  seen  climbing  up  the 
hidden  slope  below.  They  not  only  accentuated 
the  sense  of  dip,  brought  out,  as  it  were,  the  aerial 
perspective,  but  their  dark  spires  added  another 
element  to  the  linear  composition.  Still  further 
enriching  the  linear  composition  were  three  or  four 
little  birches  perched  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  and 
shooting  their  white  slenderness  upward,  just  enough 
off  the  ruled  vertical  to  avoid  primness.  Not  one 
of  these  trees  was  old — they  could  easily  have  been 
planted  by  a  generation  still  hale  to  enjoy  them. 
And  they  converted  a  rough,  uninteresting  corner 
of  landscape  into  a  bold,  striking  composition. 

Down  along  the  river  meadows  and  in  the  hay- 
fields,  too,  I  come  again  and  again  on  natural  tree 


282  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

plantings  which  fall  wonderfully  into  the  larger 
landscape  rhythms.  Such  effects,  indeed,  have 
more  than  once  ruined  my  concentration  on  the 
brassy  shot  that  I  needed  to  get  my  ball  across  the 
swales  of  the  golf  club.  We  have  been  employing 
elms  as  shade  trees  for  more  than  two  centuries, 
over  village  streets  and  over  our  dwellings,  and  the 
main  street  of  Stockbridge  and  the  famous  Seminary 
Walk  on  Andover  Hill  are  eloquent  witnesses  of  our 
good  sense  in  the  matter.  But  the  elm  can  be  much 
more  than  a  shade  tree,  especially  if  it  belongs  to 
the  round-headed,  drooping-branched  type.  Rising 
stately  out  of  clustered,  lowlier  foliage,  with  shrub- 
bery massed  at  the  edge  of  the  clump,  its  great 
green  domed  crown  falls  superbly,  on  a  summer 
day,  into  the  rhythm  of  a  far-off  mountain  seen 
beneath  its  branches  and  the  lofty,  puffy  domes  of 
white  cumuli  seen  in  the  blue  above.  There  can  be 
no  more  splendid  side  wall  to  a  vista.  To  plant 
elms  only  in  open,  formal  rows,  or  to  leave  single 
elms  as  isolated,  " specimen"  trees,  rising  abruptly 
out  of  a  lawn  instead  if  forming  the  dome  to  a  wall 
of  greenery,  has  been  a  sad  waste  of  landscape 
material. 

The  early  settlers  of  our  hill  country  planted  sugar- 
maples  before  their  doors,  and  in  rows  along  the 
road — which,  by  the  way,  their  descendants  have 
tapped  till  the  old  trees  died,  and  then  cut  down, 
without  the  gumption  to  plant  more.  The  sugar- 
maple  is  a  noble  tree,  in  winter  dissolving  in  a  great 
fountain  spray  of  gray  twiggery,  in  summer  a  dense 
crown  of  leafage  shedding  cool,  dappled  shade,  in 
autumn  a  blaze  of  cheerful  gold.  The  old,  lean-to 


The  green  domed  crown  of  elm  rising  stately  out  of  clustered 

foliage 


IN    PRAISE    OF    TREES  283 

farm-house,  with  its  front  flagged  path  coining  down 
to  the  road  between  two  shaggy  sugar  boles,  with  a 
great  lilac-bush  or  two  on  the  northern  side,  with 
an  arched  woodshed  neatly  stacked  with  logs,  and 
across  the  way  the  gray  barns  and  cattle  at  the 
bars,  was  a  unique  contribution  to  the  American 
scene,  and  a  type  of  simple  architecture  and  simple 
planting  which  for  homely  charm,  the  sense  of  solid 
comfort,  and,  above  all,  for  harmony  with  the  nat- 
ural landscape,  has  never  since  been  equaled  nor  even 
remotely  approached.  There  is  no  reason,  however, 
why  it  should  be  allowed  to  perish.  Our  architects 
are  turning  back  to  the  Colonial  ideals  of  simplicity 
and  sense  of  solid  comfort  in  line  and  proportion, 
and  the  maple-tree  is  a  rapid  grower.  Beside  a 
corner  of  my  house  is  a  sugar- tree  a  foot  thick  at 
breast  height,  and  much  taller  than  the  house.  It 
was  set  out  as  a  ten-foot  sapling  less  than  thirty 
years  ago.  Before  I  pass  on  I  expect  to  see  it  almost 
as  large  as  the  trees  in  the  long  row  of  maples  which 
line  the  highway  all  down  my  boundary.  A  house 
by  a  road  thus  lined  seems  snugly  settled  into  its 
place,  with  an  aisle  of  cool  shadow  leading  to  the 
door,  and  when,  in  spring,  a  pail  shines  at  every 
tree  and  as  the  warm  sun  mounts  you  hear  the 
tinkling  drip  of  the  sap,  you  have  a  sense  that  here 
is  a  place  where  life  is  self -sustaining,  sufficient  unto 
itself,  rich  with  the  fragrance  of  things  of  the  soil. 
I  cannot  imagine  our  highway  without  its  maple- 
trees  nor  wanting  to  live  upon  it  when  they  are 
gone. 

Joyce  Kilmer,  one  of  our  poets  who  was  taken 
from  us  by  the  war,  once  wrote : 


284 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

This  may  be  true,  but  we  can  considerably  aid  the 
Deity,  who,  indeed,  cannot  make  some  trees  at^all 
without  assistance  in  germinating  the  seed.  He 
could  not  have  continued  to  make  the  sugar-maple 
at  the  corner  of  my  house,  even,  if  I  had  not  dis- 
covered and  removed  the  borer  which  was  beginning 
to  ring  it.  But,  above  all,  we  can  assist  by  replant- 
ing trees  where  some  previous  generation  has  re- 
moved them,  or  by  taking  some  thought  of  the 
generations  to  come  and  planting  arboreal  delights 
for  eyes  unborn.  America  for  a  century  has  been  a 
land  of  the  ruthless  ax.  We  are  paying  the  price 
now  in  the  cost  of  our  lumber  as  well  as  the  loss  of 
our  landscape  charm.  Isn't  it  time  to  turn  to  the 
spade  and,  for  every  tree  we  cut,  plant  another  in 
its  place?  I  am  beginning  the  spring  by  planting 
five  hundred.  They  are  tiny  things,  and  I  shall 
never  live  to  see  them  reach  maturity.  But  I  like 
to  feel,  as  I  set  their  roots  in  the  earth,  that  I  am 
at  least  of  some  slight  assistance  to  the  Deity  in 
making  the  fairest  of  all  His  creations. 


ENJOYING    THE    INFLUENZA 

IT  is  very  pleasant  to  be  put  to  bed  with  the 
Spanish  influenza,  especially  when  you  don't 
have  the  Spanish  influenza.  Waking  with  cer- 
tain indications  of  a  cold,  the  autocrat  of  my  des- 
tinies put  me  back  to  bed  in  the  west  room,  where 
the  bed  is  close  to  a  window,  and  sent  for  a  doctor. 
The  doctor,  however,  was  ten  hours  in  coming,  poor 
man,  and  after  I  had  given  up  as  useless  the  attempt 
to  persuade  myself  that  my  head  ached,  or  my  back 
was  lame,  or  my  bones  were  assertive,  I  watched  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  dash  for  my  pipe  and  tobacco, 
two  extra  pillows  and  a  bathrobe,  and  then  propped 
myself  up  to  enjoy  a  long  day  with  my  mountain. 
(Naturally  I  forgot  the  matches,  and  had  to  get  up 
again.) 

Sitting  in  bed,  I  could  see  the  first  great  shoulder 
of  my  mountain  leaping  up  fifteen  hundred  feet 
almost  from  the  dooryard — or,  rather,  I  could  see  it 
begin  the  leap,  for  everything  above  the  thousand- 
foot  level  was  wrapped  in  cloud.  Yet  it  was  coming 
on  to  be  a  fair  October  day,  it  was  "burning  off," 
as  they  say  by  the  shore,  though  the  expression  is 
seldom  heard  inland.  The  sun  was  already  striking 
rather  hazily  across  the  eastern  plain  and  warming 
the  gold  and  green  and  russet  and  maroon  tapestry 
of  the  forest  that  climbs  the  mountain  from  my  back- 
door yard  to  the  peak,  save  where  a  belt  of  naked 


286  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

cliffs  cut  out  through  it  like  some  vast  blunt  ship's 
prow  through  a  giant  sea. 

From  my  window  I  saw  the  trees,  the  tall,  dark 
pines  apparently  in  command,  stepping  up  the  slppe 
rank  on  rank,  till  the  leaders  grew  indistinct  and 
ghostlike  as  the  mist  enfolded  them,  like  patient 
soldiers  climbing  into  the  mystery  of  battle  smoke. 
I  saw  the  cliffs,  too,  their  feet  amid  the  golden,  sun- 
lit soldiers,  their  naked  gray  sides  rearing  up  into  the 
vapor,  their  tops  invisible.  Without  the  sun,  the 
scene  would  have  depressed  me.  I  know  of  nothing 
more  leaden  on  the  spirit  than  to  be  shut  in  by 
mountain  walls  which  vanish  into  a  cloud  ceiling. 
But  with  the  warm  sun  striking  under  from  the 
open  east,  I  had  only  the  exhilarating  sensation  of 
vast,  unknown  height,  gained  from  the  stimulus  of 
an  upward-soaring  line  which  vanishes  into  mystery 
and  might  go  on  forever.  Here,  thought  I,  is  an 
argument  for  the  imaginative,  the  suggestive,  in  any 
art,  but  particularly  the  graphic  arts,  the  art,  say, 
of  scene-designing  in  the  theater.  My  mountain 
was  a  scene  by  Gordon  Craig,  not  Belasco. 

As  the  sun  climbed  higher  and  from  far  off  came 
the  sput-sput,  sput-sput,  skip — sput-sput,  sput-sput, 
sput — skip,  of  a  gasolene-engine  running  my  neigh- 
bor's thresher  (if  I  had  really  had  Spanish  in- 
fluenza, I  should  have  gone  mad  trying  to  predict 
the  coming  of  each  skip!),  I  could  see  the  under 
fringe  of  the  cloud  fray  out,  sway,  twine  wraiths 
of  vapor  around  the  trees,  untwine  again,  and 
always  rising,  almost  imperceptibly  but  still  rising, 
exactly  as  if  it  were  a  gigantic  soft  gauze  curtain 
being  drawn  up  to  heaven  with  a  superb  leisureli- 


ENJOYING   THE    INFLUENZA         287 

ness.  Up  and  up  it  went,  a  thrilling  thing  to 
watch,  till  I  knew  from  certain  landmarks  that  in 
a  moment  I  should  see  blue  sky  between  it  and 
the  summit  of  the  shoulder.  I  suddenly  saw  the 
blue  sky,  but  not  as  a  rift  between  the  summit  and 
the  lower  edge  of  the  curtain.  The  curtain  was  no 
more !  It  had  mysteriously  vanished  into  the  blue- 
and-gold  glory  of  a  perfect  October  day,  and  lo! 
Noon,  like  a  blithe  young  god,  stood  yellow-headed 
on  the  mountain-top  and  reached  for  a  billowing 
cumulus  to  be  his  cloudy  toy. 

Here  my  contemplation  was  slightly  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  the  mail  and  a  tray  of  dinner.  It 
is  impossible  for  any  one  to  record  in  these  times 
that  the  arrival  of  the  daily  paper  leaves  him  indif- 
ferent— or,  if  it  is  possible,  he  is  surely  an  impossible 
person.  Yet  when  I  turned  my  face  once  more  to 
the  window,  it  was  easy,  under  the  spell  of  the 
mountain,  to  slip  again  from  the  fetters  of  baffled 
thought  to  the  freedom  of  passive  contemplation — 
easy,  and  how  great  a  relief!  The  sun  was  now  in 
the  southwest  and  striking  in  on  my  bed.  To  the 
northwest,  where  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  re- 
cedes in  a  splendid  curve,  a  haze  of  shadow  was 
already  stealing  out,  and  between  me  and  the  high 
wall  thus  dusked  rose  a  lower,  near-by  knoll,  in  full 
sunshine,  shutting  out  from  my  view  the  base  of  the 
main  wall.  Both  knoll  and  wall  were  tapestried 
with  the  same  greens  and  golds,  but  they  were  in 
two  distinct  planes  of  light,  and  the  sense  of  space 
between  them,  the  aerial  perspective,  was  theatri- 
cally intensified,  exactly  as  it  used  to  be  in  those 
photographs  we  looked  at  through  a  stereoscope.  I 


288  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

thought  of  the  old  black-walnut  instrument  which 
used  to  repose,  when  not  in  use,  on  our  old  black- 
walnut  "whatnot"  in  the  sitting-room,  with  its  box 
of  photographs  and  The  Boys  of  '76.  I  recalled 
especially  the  pictures  of  ''Niagara  in  Winter," 
which  were  my  greatest  delight.  Memories  of  the 
old  "whatnot"  in  the  old  yellow  house  in  the  old, 
quiet  days  when  Middlesex  County  knew  not  the 
motor  nor  the  trolley,  when  eggs  were  a  cent  apiece 
and  you  reached  grandfather's  house  in  a  stage- 
coach, almost  made  me  forget  my  mountain. 

When  I  looked  again — I  don't  know  how  much 
later — long,  chill,  wraithlike  fingers  of  shadow  were 
sneaking  down  the  slopes.  First  they  clutched  the 
deeper  ravines.  Then  they  took  hold  of  the  gray 
cliffs  and  wiped  slowly  off  all  the  irregularities,-  till 
the  cliffs  were  stubborn  rock  no  more,  no  more 
tempting  and  dangerous  paths  to  the  peak,  up  which 

I  had  often  scaled  with  a  rope,  but  strange,  down- 
dropping  sheets  of  some  ethereal  substance,  com- 
pounded of  darkness  and  gauze,  which  no  mortal 
could  scale  any  more  than  he  could  scale  a  cloud. 
My  mountain  would  have  been  chill  and  forbidding 
now,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  high  aloft,  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  next  buttress  to  the  south,  the 
invisible  sun,   streaming  its  rays  through  a  gap, 
played  a  golden  light  upon  the  trees  and  promised 
a  vision,  from  that  high  eminence,  over  the  western 
world  rim  into  that  mystic  land  which  forever  lies 

II  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  baths  of  all  the  western 
stars." 

I  watched,  wistfully,  this  golden  spot-light  rise 
slowly  up  the  shoulder  and  fade  away,  chased  off, 


ENJOYING   THE    INFLUENZA         289 

it  almost  seemed,  by  the  rising  shadows,  even  as  the 
advancing  years  drive  from  our  high,  ardent,  youth- 
ful hearts  the  ache  to  peer  beyond  the  western 
world  rim.  When  it  was  gone  the  shadow  crept  in 
through  my  window  and  I  was  suddenly  cold.  .  .  . 

Then  the  doctor  came.  He  was  worn  out,  but 
cheerful.  Indeed,  he  seemed  refreshed  at  finding 
somebody  who  wasn't  sick,  and  prescribed  that  I 
get  up.  I  got.  I  dressed  rapidly  and  sped  out  of 
doors,  into  the  woods  and  up  through  hemlock, 
birch,  and  laurel  to  the  first  rocky  vantage-point 
on  my  mountain-side.  I  was  just  in  time.  The 
vast  shadow  of  the  bulk  behind  me  had  already 
swallowed  up  the  eastward  plain,  the  farms  and 
fields,  the  village  spire,  and  was  just  beginning  to 
rise  on  the  long,  billowing  wall  of  hills  nearly  ten 
miles  away.  I  looked  through  golden  tree-tops, 
over  a  great  plain  of  dim,  dusky  color  seen  through 
half -opaque  shadow,  to  the  far  hills,  which  were— 
oh,  miracle  of  autumn! — a  frozen  wave  of  ame- 
thyst, crystallized  against  the  pearly  east. 

Before  the  shadows  swallowed  them,  too,  I  hast- 
ened down,  crossed  the  road,  and  went  eastward 
over  the  fields,  the  frosty  touch  of  twilight  in  the 
air,  and  finally  turned  to  see  my  whole  mountain, 
cut  out  of  purple,  velvet-covered  cardboard,  a 
gigantic  dome  in  two  dimensions  against  a  salmon 
sky. 

Then  night  came,  and  before  I  went  to  bed  I 
stood  in  the  open  road  a  moment  to  sense  that  huge 
shadow-bulk  towering  above  me,  cutting  the  stars, 
upon  which  later  Orion  might  set  a  foot  to  rest,  on 
his  endless  hunting.  How  vast  the  mountains  are 


29o  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

at  night !    It  was  still  and  cold.    The  katydids  were 
silent  at  last.    Only  an  owl,  far  up  the  ravine,  hooted 
mournfully,  and  an  invisible  wind,  invisible  and 
down  here  unfelt,  whispered  on  the  upper  ledges. 
It  sounded  like  the  rustle  of  the  Milky  Way!  * 
"Can  it  be  I  have  a  fever,  after  all?"  thought  I, 
and  bade  my  mountain  a  hasty  good-night. 


ADVENTURES    WITH    AN    AX 

THERE  is  no  better  company  than  a  good, 
sharp  ax.  (A  dull  ax  is  like  a  dull  person, 
and  breeds  weariness  and  boredom.)  Among 
my  happiest  recollections  of  the  year  are  those 
cold,  clear  winter  days  when  I  go  up  the  mountain, 
on  snow-shoes  perhaps,  with  my  double-bitted, 
long-handled  ax  over  one  shoulder  and  my  lunch- 
box  slung  from  a  strap  over  the  other,  as  the 
morning  sun  is  waking  all  the  snowy  world  to  a 
dazzle,  and  return,  weary  but  aglow  with  the 
heat  of  exercise,  as  the  purple  shadows  are  creep- 
ing eastward  and  the  far  hills  are  touched  with 
amethyst.  You  might  suppose  that  within  the 
compass  of  such  a  day  was  little  but  rather  mo- 
notonous toil,  hard  toil,  too,  with  the  chances 
in  favor  of  cold  fingers  and  uncomfortable  feet. 
But  you  would  be  quite  wrong,  except  that  it  is 


292  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

hard  toil,  the  harder  the  larger  the  trees  and  the 
heavier  your  ax.  Hard  toil,  however,  is  just  what 
you  want  on  a  frosty  winter  morning,  and  the  rhyth- 
mic swing  of  a  four-pound  ax,  when  once  you  have 
mastered  the  knack,  and  your  muscles  and  wind 
have  grown  to  the  proper  stature  of  endurance,  is 
among  the  glorious  physical  sensations,  no  less  de- 
lectable and  to  be  savored  with  endless  relish  than 
the  soft  sensations  of  cool  water  on  a  hot  day,  or 
the  sharp  caresses  of  desire,  or  the  swing  of  a  well- 
balanced  brassy. 

My  pasture  springs  abruptly  from  the  highway 
right  up  the  mountain-side,  so  that  you  pant  to  climb 
it,  and  only  the  most  skilful  hazard  a  descent  on 
skees.  At  the  top  of  this  pasture  are  several  naked 
outcroppings  of  the  underlying  limestone,  on  which 
you  turn  and  survey  the  world,  amazed  that  in  so 
brief  a  walk  from  the  house  you  have  suddenly  risen 
so  far  above  it.  The  farm,  the  neighboring  farms, 
lie  spread  out  like  a  map,  the  village  spires  three 
miles  away  prick  the  plain;  to  south  and  east,  in 
the  far  distance,  lie  the  long,  wave-crest  horizontals 
of  the  opposite  hills,  while  to  the  north  more  abrupt 
individualized  mountains  are  huddled  picturesquely 
—Tom  Ball,  West  Stockbridge,  Monument  (with 
its  white  cliffs),  and  others  more  remote.  Only  to 
the  west  is  there  no  look-off.  Here  the  pasture 
ends  against  a  wall  of  woods,  and  the  mountain- 
side, growing  ever  steeper,  climbs  on  up  another 
thousand  feet. 

It  is  this  wooded  wall  directly  at  the  head  of  my 
pasture  that  I  am  attacking  wifii  my  ax,  and  shall 
be  for  some  winters  to  come.  Above  are  acres  upon 


ADVENTURES    WITH    AN    AX 


293 


acres  of  larger  timber — white  oaks,  maples,  chestnut, 
poplars,  ash,  hemlocks,  pines,  great  canoe-birches. 
But  I  do  not  need  to  go  so  far.  Here,  directly  at 
the  pasture-top,  are  twenty  acres  or  more  of  gray 
birch,  in  a  dense,  exclusive  stand,  making  as  indi- 
vidual and  fairy  a  little  forest  as  ever  you  saw. 


They  cut  easily,  and  though  they  burn  easily,  too, 
yet  there  are  so  many  of  them,  and  they  grow  so 
near  and  renew  themselves  from  the  stumps  so 
quickly,  that  it  would  not  pay  to  go  higher  for 
harder  wood.  The  tops,  moreover,  are  useful  for 
wattle  fences,  and  make  the  best  pea-brush  to  be 
had.  They  grow  where  only  a  generation  ago  was 


294  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

a  sweeping  field  of  rye,  and  in  those  brief  thirty 
years  they  have  reached  an  average  height  of  about 
thirty  to  thirty -five  feet  and  the  largest  trees  a 
diameter  of  eight  inches.  In  most  places,  however, 
they  are  smaller,  because  a  second,  even  a  third  and 
the  beginnings  of  a  fourth  crop  have  been  grown, 
springing  from  the  old  stubs  and  thus  forming 
clumps,  as  many,  often,  as  six  healthy  trees  stand- 
ing like  a  stiff  bouquet.  Though  they  are  called 
gray  birches,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  large 
white  birch  (the  paper,  or  canoe,  birch),  they  are 
actually  snowy  white  themselves,  with  black,  tri- 
angular markings  under  the  spring  of  each  branch, 
and  as  you  enter  their  deep  shadow,  especially  in 
spring  when  the  foliage  is  a  vivid,  virginal  green, 
and  as  you  tread  on  the  yielding  carpet  beneath  of 
prince's  pine,  the  effect  is  of  a  shimmering,  delicate 
wood  in  fairyland.  In  winter  their  twiggery  is  a 
soft  lavender,  and  lays  a  belt  of  rich  color  along  the 
snowy  mountain-side. 

Few  people  know  how  to  use  an  ax,  and  of  those 
who  do,  not  all  have  the  endurance  to  keep  the  pace 
steadily  all  day  long.  I  can  swing  a  cleek  or  a  mid- 
iron  with  tolerable  accuracy — that  is,  I  generally 
hit  the  ball.  But  I  am  by  no  means  so  certain  of 
hitting  where  I  wish  to  with  my  ax -blade.  To  take 
a  birch  off  neatly,  with  the  minimum  of  stump,  it 
is  necessary  to  make  a  deep  downward  cut  on  the 
side  toward  which  you  wish  it  to  fall,  and  then  a 
horizontal  cut  at  the  base  of  this  incision,  to  remove 
the  big  chip.  If  your  ax  is  sharp  and  your  blow 
powerful,  one  good  downward  cut  on  the  fear  side, 
if  it  is  struck  at  the  right  point,  will  now  cause  the 


ADVENTURES    WITH    AN    AX          295 

tree  to  topple  over,  the  end  of  the  pole  seemingly 
in  the  shape  of  a  flat  wedge.  But  to  fell  a  tree  over 
four  inches  in  diameter  with  three  blows  requires 
both  strength  and  accuracy,  while  to  fell  a  small 
tree  of  two  or  three  inches  without  having  your  ax 
cut  clean  through  on  the  second  or  third  blow  and 
chipping  its  edge  on  a  stone  requires  both  accuracy 
and  judgment.  All  I  can  say  about  myself  is  that 
my  game  is  improving.  I  am  still  a  long  way  from 
par,  but  I  am  no  longer  in  the  duffer  class;  I  have 
the  endurance,  and  when  I  keep  my  mind  on  the 
job,  which  means  when  I  keep  my  eye  on  the  spot  I 
hope  to  hit,  I  can  get  a  tree  down  with  something 
like  the  minimum  number  of  strokes.  But  when 
I  let  my  mind  wander  I  take  ten  strokes  on  a  six- 
inch  trunk,  where  I  should  need  but  five,  and  the 
stub  looks  as  if  it  had  been  chewed  rather  than 
chopped. 

And  it  is  so  easy  to  let  your  mind  wander  from 
the  job,  even  in  spite  of  the  glorious  sensation  of 
heaving  up  the  ax  and  then  sending  its  gleaming 
head  downward,  the  weight  pulling  at  your  shoul- 
ders as  it  falls,  the  acceleration  of  pace  as  the  blade 
is  about  to  bite  the  wood  accomplished  by  a  stif- 
fening of  the  wrists  and  forearms.  My  mind  wan- 
ders, first,  because  under  the  cover  of  the  birches 
are  scores  and  scores  of  little  pines,  ranging  in  size 
from  seedlings  six  inches  high  to  trees  of  ten  feet, 
at  which  height  their  tops,  deprived  of  sun  and 
air,  begin  to  die,  and  in  a  year  or  two  the  whole 
tree  goes,  if  the  birches  are  not  removed  around  it. 
Getting  out  my  season's  wood-supply  from  a  quar- 
ter-acre of  the  birches  means  uncovering  a  quarter- 


296  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

acre  of  potential  pine  forest,  which  is  in  itself  suf- 
ficiently exciting.  As  I  trim  out  the  network  of 
lower  dead  birch  twigs,  or  cut  down  a  half-dozen 
clumps  of  the  trees,  almost  invariably  I  am  rewarded 
by  the  discovery  of  a  pine,  sometimes  actually 
growing  in  the  very  midst  of  a  birch  cluster,  its  seed 
having  lodged  and  germinated  in  the  mold  of  the 
old  stump.  Then  great  care  has  to  be  taken  in 
removing  the  birches  around  it.  Sometimes  it  is  a 
hemlock  I  come  upon,  and  occasionally  a  cedar. 
But,  save  for  canoe-birches  scattered  here  and  there 
among  the  gray  (occasionally  a  tree  will  be  so  crossed 
that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  say  which  variety 
it  belongs  to),  there  are  almost  no  hardwoods  in 
the  stand.  The  shade  is  too  dense  for  the  seeds  to 
germinate.  The  predominant  succession  is  white 
pine,  and  for  every  blow  of  my  ax  and  every  crash 
of  a  birch  to  the  ground  I  have  the  sensation  that 
I  am,  in  effect,  planting  a  pine-tree  to  take  its  place. 

I  dream,  as  I  chop,  of  the  forest  to  be. 

Then,  as  I  chop,  there  are  noises  which  must  be 
attended  to.  Have  you  ever  sat  in  a  canoe,  on  still 
water  under  a  bridge,  as  a  team  drove  by  overhead, 
and  heard  the  fine,  delicate  tinkle  of  the  dust,  shaken 
down  between  the  planks,  as  it  hit  the  water? 
When  my  first  blow  hits  a  birch-tree  it  is  followed 
by  the  same  delicate  tinkle,  the  tinkle  of  a  myriad 
little  dry  seed-pods  raining  down  upon  the  snow— 
a  curious  echo  to  the  resonant  blow  of  an  ax !  There 
is,  too,  always  the  faint,  dry  harping  of  the  wind  in 
the  twiggery,  perhaps  the  wiry  cheep  of  a  chickadee 
from  the  depths  of  the  woods,  or  his  cheerful  dee- 
dee,  sometimes  the  scolding  caw  of  a  crow,  again  the 


ADVENTURES    WITH   AN   AX         297 

jingle  of  sleigh-bells  down  on  the  road  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away.  Naturally  at  that  sound  I  have  to 
straighten  my  back  and  look  to  see  if  I  can  dis- 
tinguish who  is  passing. 

This  is  generally  fatal,  for  when  I  look  down  to 
the  road  I  cannot  help  looking  farther,  across  the 
plain  to  the  distant  hills,  noting  the  beautiful  rusty 
color  of  the  tamaracks  by  the  swamp,  the  rich  choc- 
olate of  the  shrubby  cinquefoil  thickets,  the  smoke- 
blue  of  the  horizon  hills.  Winter,  far  from  being  a 
colorless  season,  is,  in  point  of  fact,  infinitely  richer 
in  color  masses  than  spring  or  summer,  and  far 
more  beautifully  variable  from  hour  to  hour.  These 
smoke-blue  eastern  hills  I  am  now  gazing  at  in  the 
morning  light  will  change  their  tone  a  dozen  times 
before  they  put  on  their  translucent  robes  of  ame- 
thyst at  sunset,  warning  me  to  take  my  homeward 
way. 

I  am  not  alone  upon  the  mountain.  A  cotton- 
tail lives  just  up  the  slope  from  where  I  am  cutting, 
and  sometimes  I  see  him,  always  his  tracks.  The 
chickadees  are  quaintly  curious  about  my  occupa- 
tion. The  three  crows  which  have  stuck  by  us  all 
winter  go  back  and  forth  overhead.  By  three- 
thirty  or  four  the  big  owls  will  begin  to  hoot.  But 
my  particular  intimate  on  this  job  is  a  weasel.  He 
lives,  I  think,  in  the  tumbled-down  stone  wall  which 
runs  up  through  the  birches  and  beside  which  I 
build  my  noonday  fire.  At  any  rate,  I  never  see 
him  except  in  or  on  this  wall.  He  is  entirely  fear- 
less, even  when  the  dog  is  with  me,  and  as  full  of 
alert  curiosity  as  a  fox  or  a  terrier.  Snow-white 
except  for  the  jet-black  tip  to  his  tail  and  his  two 


298  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

jet-black,  wonderfully  intelligent  eyes,  he  runs  along 
a  few  feet  inside  the  wall,  then  re-emerges  from  a 
hole,  raises  his  long  neck,  and  stares  at  me,  his  head 
cocked  the  least  bit  to  one  side.  Bobbing  in  again 
so  quickly  you  can  scarcely  detect  his  motions,  he 
as  suddenly  reappears,  it  may  be  nearer  still,  and 
this  time  sits  up  on  his  haunches  like  a  squirrel  to 
observe  me  better.  He  is  rather  small  and  is  prob- 
ably she,  but  so  beautiful,  alert,  fearless,  and  intel- 
ligent of  aspect  that  it  seems  hard  to  believe  it 
capable  of  the  savage  cruelty  that  is  its  instinctive 
nature.  I  have  not  dared  to  try  to  tame  it  with 
food,  for  fear  the  dog  might  get  it,  though  I  fancy 
the  chances  are  slight.  Its  rapidity  of  motion  is 
almost  incredible. 

An  afternoon  in  the  wood-lot  is  never  so  pleasant 
as  a  morning,  because  the  ax  has  curiously  grown 
heavier  (as  well  as  inexplicably  duller) ,  and  the  un- 
pleasant but  inevitable  task  has  to  be  faced  of  trim- 
ming the  slash  from  the  poles  cut  before  luncheon. 
This  is  a  matter  not  of  strength,  but  of  patience, 
and  it  is  always  more  pleasant  to  be  assertive  than 
patient.  But  as  my  clock — the  creeping  shadow  of 
the  mountain  shoulder  above  me — warns  that  the 
day's  task  is  nearing  its  end,  I  always  leave  till 
morning  any  poles  that  may  yet  be  untrimmed,  and 
finish  the  day  by  a  few  strong,  farewell  swings 
against  the  stoutest  trees  within  reach.  I  like  to 
finish  with  a  final  free  play  of  every  muscle  and  the 
brittle  crash  of  a  trunk  down  the  slope.  I  like  it 
because  it  sends  me  to  my  sheepskin  coat  and  pipe  in 
a  warm  glow,  and  because  the  fallen  tree  is  a  symbol 
of  the  meaning  of  my  task. 


ADVENTURES    WITH    AN    AX 


299 


The  meaning  of  my  task!  How  clear  it  is  to  me 
as  I  emerge  from  the  now  chilling  shadow  of  the 
birch-wood  edge  into  the  paler  shadow  of  the  moun- 
tain shoulder  as  it  falls  across  the  pasture  ledges, 
across  the  plain,  and  begins  slowly  to  climb  the 
wave-line  of  the  eastern  hills,  dreaming  now  in 


amethyst!  Just  at  my  feet,  down  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  snow-rippled  slope,  at  the  head  of  its  naked 
orchard  beside  the  road,  sits  a  red-brick  house. 
Within  that  house  are  eight  fireplaces.  There  are 
stoves  and  a  furnace,  besides,  but  they  are  of  second- 
ary interest.  There  are  eight  hearths  to  dance 
and  glow,  and  it  is  my  ax  which  feeds  them.  Buy- 
ing coal,  mined  for  you  by  others,  is  prosaic  at  best, 
and  nowadays,  for  some  of  us,  not  always  easy. 
But  going  up  your  mountain  to  your  own  wood-lot, 
and  with  your  own  arms  swinging  the  gleaming  ax 
that  fells  you  twenty  cords  of  wood  on  the  crisp 
days  of  winter,  to  season  against  the  coming  of  the 


300 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

winter  again,  is  the  poetry  as  well  as  the  health  of 
self -sustenance.  It  gives  you  a  fine,  independent 
feeling.  It  makes  you  appreciate  doubly  the  blessed 
welcome  of  your  glowing  hearths.  It  flavors  your 
waiting  tea  with  the  sweetness  of  honest  satisfaction 
and  solid  accomplishment.  It  takes  you  back- 
that,  I  think,  is  at  the  heart  of  the  secret,  if  secret 
there  be — to  an  earlier  day  when  we  all  lived  closer 
to  the  land,  leaned  more  heavily  on  our  own  efforts, 
and  meant  by  "home"  something  more  homely,  self- 
centered,  and  self-sustaining.  There  are  spots  in  the 
Berkshires  where,  I  regret  to  say,  it  would  not  be 
considered  quite  the  thing  to  cut  your  own  wood, 
but  I  rejoice,  as  I  half  slide  down  the  steep  pasture 
slope  toward  the  red  house  by  the  road,  that  I  no 
longer  live  in  such  a  spot.  I  find  the  feeding  of  my 
fireplaces  a  splendid  and  heart- warming  adventure. 


WEEDS    ABOVE    THE    SNOW 


THERE  is  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground,  lying 
almost  level,  for  it  fell  quietly,  and  during  a 
warm  day  and  night,  so  that  it  was  lightly 
crusted  before  the  wind  came  up.  Only  on  the  most 
exposed  slopes  has  the  northwest  wind,  which  draws 
strongly  down  our  valley  beneath  the  shaggy  moun- 
tain wall,  been  able  to  ruffle  the  surface  into  tiny 
drifts,  like  the  waves  of  a  choppy  sea,  or  like  the 
sand  of  the  Sahara.  Skeeing  rapidly  over  such  a  sur- 
face is  beset  with  much  the  same  perils  as  sailing  a 
canoe  through  a  chop. 

My  brook  is  now  a  beautiful  thing,  not  in  the 
least  resembling  any  of  its  spring  or  summer  aspects. 
If  you  should  load  a  flexible  brush  heavily  with 
black  oil-paint,  and  then  draw  it  in  a  wavy  line 
across  a  sheet  of  thick,  soft,  clear  white  paper,  you 
might  approximate  the  appearance  of  my  brook 


302  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

from  a  slight  distance,  as  it  comes  down  through  the 
pasture.  But  you  could  not  quite  capture,  even 
with  the  utmost  technical  dexterity,  the  delicate 
undulations  of  its  course.  Ordinarily  I  am  aware 
of  it  as  a  coolly  gurgling  little  brown  stream,  splash- 
ing into  white  over  rocks,  lined  with  grasses,  weeds, 
and  monkey-flowers,  but  in  no  sense  an  exponent  of 
pure  line.  What  line  it  has  is  half  lost  in  the  grasses. 
But  now  it  is  pure  line,  a  ribbon  of  velvety  black 
sunk  in  the  deeper  white  velvet  of  the  snow,  a  line 
that  tells  of  every  hidden  contour  of  the  ground, 
and,  above  all,  has  that  sheer  beauty  of  curve  which 
only  something  that  flows  can  ever  completely 
attain.  Coming  nearer  to  it,  I  find  its  transformed 
banks  no  less  strange  and  lovely.  Every  rock 
around  which  the  dark  water  curves,  every  grass 
hassock,  is  capped  with  snow  like  a  tiny  dome,  and 
all  the  banks  are  overhung  with  snow  in  a  delicate 
yet  abrupt  down-sweeping  curve,  steeper  than  that 
of  a  thatched  roof,  and  almost  infinitely  varied  as 
the  wind  above  or  water  bslow  has  molded  them. 
It  is  not  until  I  stand  directly  over  the  brook  that 
I  see  through  the  black  water,  swaying  gently  in 
the  current,  the  familiar  green  of  living  vegetation. 
My  brook  in  the  snow  is  the  skeleton  of  contour, 
the  soul  of  pure  line.  It  is  a  single,  fluid  master- 
stroke by  the  Master  Etcher. 

But,  as  I  move  about  over  the  wide  white  paper 
of  the  fields  and  pastures  to-day,  I  realize  my  entire 
world  as  an  etching.  My  pasture  climbs  steeply  to 
the  forest,  and  the  forest,  with  ever-increasing 
abruptness,  climbs  to  the  fifteen-hundred-foot  ridge 
of  the  mountain  shoulder  which  juts  boldly  into  the 


My  pasture  climbs  steeply  to  the  forest  with  ever-increasing 
abruptness 


WEEDS    ABOVE    THE    SNOW  303 

plain  and  hides  a  sight,  from  this  close  angle,  of  the 
domed  summit  yet  a  thousand  feet  higher.  So 
steep,  indeed,  are  the  upper  ledges  of  this  shaggy 
shoulder  that  they  are,  in  places,  practically  pre- 
cipitous, and  the  trees,  seen  from  below,  are  out- 
lined against  a  white  backing,  either  of  snow-and- 
ice-covered  cliffs  or  of  the  upended  forest  floor 
itself. 

The  bulk  of  the  forest  is  deciduous,  a  mixed 
stand  of  chestnut  and  hardwoods;  and  now  the 
straight,  forest -grown  trunks  are  suddenly  stabbed 
in  a  new  distinctness  against  the  white  backing, 
with  a  myriad  down  strokes  of  the  etcher's  needle. 
Their  sprayed  tops,  an  intricate  maze  of  hairlike 
lines,  are  colored  in  subdued  tints  of  lavender,  red, 
and  brown,  as  if  the  colored  ink  had  been  delicately 
brushed  on  with  a  bit  of  feather.  The  scattered 
evergreens — pines  and  hemlocks — are,  however, 
firmly  etched  in  outline,  each  one  distinct  though 
half  a  mile  away,  and  colored  a  rich  dark  green  with 
a  loaded  brush.  There  is  an  old  saying  that  you 
cannot,  when  too  close,  see  the  forest  for  the  trees. 
Here  on  the  great,  white,  upstanding  paper  of  the 
mountain-side,  I  suddenly  behold  both  the  forest  and 
the  trees.  The  mountain  looks  even  higher  and 
steeper  than  when  wearing  its  customary  aspect ;  the 
forest  is  no  less  impressive  in  bulk;  but  the  myriad 
arboreal  units  which  compose  it  are  suddenly  re- 
vealed, each  one  delineated  with  infinite  patience, 
in  its  naked  skeleton  of  trunk  and  branches,  pat- 
terned in  ink  strokes  on  the  snow. 

Letting  my  eyes  come  back  from  the  mountain 
ledges  to  the  pasture  at  my  feet,  I  am  aware  of  the 


304 


IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 


loveliest  part  of  the  whole  great  etching  which  is 
the  visible  world  to-day.  The  weed-tops  above  the 
snow!  To  the  farmer,  at  least,  they  are  weeds. 
Some  of  them  are  the  ghosts  of  our  fairest  flowers. 

Dried  now  to  a  russet 
or  straw  -  brown,  in 
some  lights  almost  an 
old-gold,  or,  in  the 
case  of  hardhack  and 
shrubby  cinquefoil,  to 
a  deep  chocolate,  these 
dead  stalks  stand  up 
rigid  above  the  snow, 
and  each  one  reveals 
all  that  it  possesses 
of  linear  charm  and 
intricacy.  And  how 
much  that  almost  in- 
variably is !  Here ,  in  a 
space  of  a  few  feet  near 
t^e  fence,  where  for 
some  reason  the  cows 
did  not  crop  the  pasture  close  last  summer,  the 
etcher's  needle  has  fixed  in  beauty  no  less  than  a 
score  of  different  designs,  some  of  them  as  lovely  as  a 
snow  crystal.  Take,  for  example,  that  spray  of  wood 
asters.  The  stem  rises  above  the  crust,  and  then 
curves  gracefully  down- wind,  throwing  out  wiry 
branchlets,  each  branchlet  hung  with  tiny  stars, 
each  star  the  shell  that  once  held  a  pale-blue  flower. 
They  are  no  less  lovely,  surely,  than  the  flowers 
—these  stiff  little  straw-brown  stars  etched  on  the 
gleaming  snow.  Beside  them  are  the  brown  plumes 


WEEDS    ABOVE   THE    SNOW  305 

of  goldenrod,  the  dried  flower- cups  like  rayed  pin- 
heads  ;  with  what  tool  did  the  etcher  make  so  many 
perfect,  star-edged  dots?  The  Queen  Anne's  lace 
has  half  closed  its  cups — cups  of  open  ribs  and 
diaphanous  rim,  which  hold  each  its  little  dab  of 
snow.  Amid  them  all  are  many  grasses,  fairy 
plumes  of  such  delicacy  that  the  artist's  needle 
must  merely  have  breathed  against  the  blackened 
plate.  A  mullein  stalk  by  the  fence  is  a  gaudy  thing, 
a  big,  grandiloquent  straight  line,  borne  down 
heavily  upon  for  the  sake  of  contrast.  But  beside 
it,  and  quite  as  tall,  a  milkweed  is  bursting  open 
its  pods  like  gray  and  ocher  orchids,  and  a  tall  wild 
lettuce,  ugliest  of  weeds  (always  excepting  the  bur- 
dock) in  summer,  is  now  a  slender  spire,  flowering 
at  its  peak  into  a  hundred  feathery  little  rosettes. 
To  one  who  loves  pure  line  and  pattern  this  small 
garden  of  weed-tops  above  the  snow  by  the  pasture 
fence — even  the  fence-posts  go  marching  along, 
stroke,  stroke,  stroke  of  black  across  the  snow,  in 
a  quaint  procession — could  be  a  source  of  almost 
endless  study  and  delight. 

But  again  I  lift  my  eyes.  Just  across  the  road 
is  a  row  of  fine  old  sugar-maples  which  have  not 
yet  succumbed  to  the  brutally  unintelligent  prun- 
ing of  the  State  Highway  Commission.  Now,  more 
than  ever,  I  am  aware  how,  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground,  they  begin  to  burst  into  a  great  fountain- 
spray  of  branches,  each  branch  bursting  and  re- 
bursting  on  its  upward  spring,  till  the  whole  grace- 
fully domed  crown  dissolves  in  a  riot  of  twigs,  and 
against  the  hard  winter  sky  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  tell  exactly  the  point  at  which  the  last  buds  end. 


3o6  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

Between  the  shaggy  gray  boles  of  these  trees  I  look 
across  a  meadow,  toward  the  swamp.  This  mead- 
ow was  neglected  last  summer  by  the  mowers,  and 
the  prevailing  autumn  winds  bent  the  dried  grasses 
southeastward,  so  that  now  they  form  an  army 
with  straw-gold  plumes,  sweeping  across  the  snow, 
forever  in  motion,  yet  frozen  fast.  Beyond  them 
is  a  patch  of  rich  chocolate,  where  the  etcher  has 
rubbed  the  ink  on  with  a  liberal  thumb,  and  then 
the  feathery  rust  of  the  tamaracks.  You  never 
realize  what  a  beautiful  color  rust  is  till  you  see  a 
tamarack  swamp  across  the  white  fields,  perhaps 
with  the  amethyst  lights  of  sunset  beginning  to 
tinge  the  eastern  hills.  One  of  our  ultra-modern 
American  poets  has  written  a  poem  "To  a  Discarded 
Steel  Rail,"  in  which  he  speaks  of 

A  smile  which  men  call  rust. 

The  rust  of  the  tamaracks  is  not  a  smile  at  the 
vanity  of  man's  restlessness,  however,  but  at  the 
pleasant,  sunny  world  and  the  dreaming  thoughts 
of  resurgent  sap. 

I  went  far  afield  to-day,  through  old  orchards 
where  the  deer  had  been  pawing  up  the  snow  for 
buried,  frozen  apples;  through  a  snow-laden  stand 
of  young  pines,  where  the  aspect  was  of  blobs  of 
white  spattered  on  dark  green,  and  where,  no  mat- 
ter how  low  I  stooped,  the  brushed  branches  pelted 
me  with  cold  powder;  past  fox-tracks  and  rabbit- 
tracks  and  the  bed  of  a  partridge  in  the  uncovered 
leaves — I  heard  him  go  whirring  off  through  the 
snowy  silences  before  I  reached  the  spot ;  into  clear- 
ings where  the  weed-top  etchings  were  renewed,  and 


WEEDS   ABOVE    THE    SNOW  307 

invisible  water  tinkled  somewhere  under  ice;  then 
into  deep  woods  again,  and  up  the  mountain  ravines. 


A  young  moon  holding  in  its  crescent  the  vague  wraith 
of  the  full  sphere 

It  was  late  when,  at  last,  I  pushed  back  out  of 
the  forest  fringe  and  set  my  skee-points  valleyward, 


308 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

but  leaning  first  on  my  poles  to  look  down  on  the 
ghostly  radiant,  frozen  world.  A  young  moon  swam 
over  the  mountain  shoulder,  holding  in  its  crescent 
the  vague  wraith  of  the  full  sphere,  like  a  bubble  jn 
a  golden  saucer.  The  light  of  this  moon  bathed  all 
the  world  in  its  pale,  clear  glow.  The  world  was 
not  an  etching  any  more.  All  but  the  nearest  weed- 
tops  had  disappeared.  But  each  tree  and  shrub  sent 
out  a  pale,  firm  shadow  over  the  faintly  sparkling 
snow ;  the  world  was  a  silver-point  engraving  of 
supreme  delicacy,  upon  a  frosted  paper;  and  not 
the  trees,  but  their  shadows  were  most  alive.  The 
air  was  a  frozen  crystal  which  no  sound  snapped, 
except,  far  off  in  the  valley,  a  dull  boom  from  ex- 
panding ice  in  the  pojid,  and  the  disembodied  hoot 
of  an  owl  up  the  ravine  behind  me.  Yet  there  was 
another  sound.  Listening  intently,  I  could  hear  it 
behind,  below,  on  both  sides — the  sound  of  running 
water,  like  a  wind  just  waking,  or  like  the  world's 
soft  breathing  as  it  lay  wrapped  in  frozen  dream. 

Far  below  gleamed  a  single  reddish-gold  window- 
square,  oddly  unrelated  to  the  lonely  scene.  Yet 
thither  I  must  go.  My  skees  squeaked  on  the  snow 
as  I  slid  them  forward  and  caught  the  first  rush  of 
icy  air  in  my  lungs. 

The  young  moon  has  dropped  now  behind  the 
mountain  shoulder,  and  Orion,  who  nightly  springs 
from  his  couch  beyond  the  eastern  hills,  is  up  amid 
the  game  flocks  of  the  stars.  My  window-square 
glows  out  into  darkness  lit  with  a  dim  white  radiance 
from  the  snow.  The  weed-top  etchings  are  only  in 
my  memory. 

I  know  moods — as  who  does  not? — when  it  would 


WEEDS    ABOVE    THE    SNOW  309 

be  most  natural  for  me  to  allow  them  to  remain 
there,  neither  reasoned  about  nor  written  about, 
merely  a  deepening  of  the  background  of  one's  sen- 
suous enjoyment  of  "this  goodly  frame,  the  earth/' 
Yet  to-night  I  am  curiously  tempted  to  pin  them 
up  before  me  for  further  contemplation,  endeavor- 
ing vaguely,  blindly,  to  work  from  them  to  human 
analogies. 

If,  aided  by  the  soft,  obliterating  mantle  of  the 
snow,  we  walk  abroad  and  find  common  things — a 
brook,  a  dead  weed-top — suddenly  revealed  in  a  new 
and  simpler  aspect,  so  that  some  unguessed  trait 
of  enduring  loveliness  it  all  along  possessed  is  set 
alone,  in  a  high  light,  for  contemplation,  and  from 
its  littleness  one's  soul  moves-qn  to  grasp  such  large 
conceptions  as  the  beauty  of  "the  curve  or  the  pro- 
found strength  required  for  accurate  delicacy,  why 
can  there  not  be  some  snow  mantle  in  our  relations 
with  our  fellows,  to  work  a  magical  transformation 
and  reveal  similar  unexpected  significances?  Henry 
Adams  is  but  the  last  large  mind  to  affirm  that  a  man 
can  compass  at  most  but  two  or  three  friends.  Is 
that  because  it  is  only  upon  friendship — and  love — 
that  the  snow  mantle  of  silence  tails,  and  under  the 
spell  of  this  silence  is  born  a  more  perfect  under- 
standing than  can  ever  come  of  words;  under  it,  as 
we  think  each  our  own  secret  and  dynamic  thoughts, 
we  seem  mystically  aware  of  what  it  is  in  his,  or 
her,  soul  which  is  lovely  and  eternal?  All  of  us 
know  this  snow  mantle  of  silence  that  drops  upon 
the  converse  of  friends,  the  communion  of  lovers, 
the  wife  and  husband  sitting  by  their  evening  fire. 
And  all  of  us  know  that  we  can  look  for  its  soft 


3io  IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

revealing  in  our  relations  with  but'  a  pitiful  few  of 
our  fellows.  For  the  rest,  we  guess  at  the  verities 
in  their  souls,  as  we  might  guess  at  the  exquisite 
curve  of  the  brook  when  it  is  half  lost  in  sedgy  ver- 
dure, or  at  the  delicate,  spired  loveliness  of  the 
lettuce  stalk  when  it  is  a  rank,  ungainly  green  shoot 
by  the  roadside,  with  ugly,  insignificant  flowers. 

It  is  not  alone  in  my  own  small  circle  that  I  yearn 
for  some  gentle  obliteration  alike  of  outer  ugliness 
and  rank  summer  richness,  and  a  revelation  of  those 
still,  cold  winter  lines  of  the  human  spirit  that  tell 
so  surely  whether  its  essential  form  is  fair.  After 
all,  in  our  immediate  circle,  we  arrive  in  time  at 
approximate,  if  unsatisfactory,  estimates.  But  how 
is  it  in  the  wider  relations  of  men?  As  the  snow 
buries,  so  we  talked  of  the  war  burning  away,  the 
unessentials,  and  we  did  indeed  seem  to  see  the 
stark  skeletons  of  men's  ideals,  fine  and  rigid  and 
at  a  white  heat.  But  in  the  crackling  haze  of  a 
conflagration  the  vision  is  often  deluded.  It  is 
over  the  cool  calmness  of  snow  that  outlines  are 
best  estimated — snow  which  is  white  like  peace. 

The  white  benediction  of  peace!  When  that  de- 
scends on  the  world  is  not  then  the  time  to  look 
for  those  spiritual  perfections,  those  inner,  essential 
beauties  of  soul  in  our  fellows,  which  can  give  us 
so  deep  a  moment  of  contemplation,  in  the  belief 
that  in  essence  the  world  and  the  world's  people  are 
drawn  clean  and  fine  and  delicate,  the  delicacy  of 
infinite  strength  under  perfect  control?  Ah,  if  we 
could  but  find  it  so !  If  we  could  but  admit  to  our 
deeper  beliefs  the  belief  that  war  is  a  purge,  or  peace 
a  soft-fallen  obliteration  of  rank  excesses  and  things 


WEEDS    ABOVE    THE    SNOW  311 

dead  and  ugly,  a  revelation  of  man's  structural 
spirituality,  like  the  weed-tops  above  the  snow! 
But  we  see  war  intoxicate  as  well  as  purge,  and  we 
see  peace  reveal  gross  selfishnesses,  ugly,  rank  green 


burdocks  of  greed  and  covetousness.  Nowhere  does 
the  world  of  man  lie  cool  beneath  a  white  snow 
blanket,  each  lifted  soul  a  bitten,  lacy  line  of  beauty. 
We  seem  to  see  plumed  souls  that  wave  and  beckon, 
strong,  solid,  spired  souls,  souls  delicate  as  tops  of 
grass;  but  ever  such  a  mass  and  maze  of  other  souls, 
lineless,  formless,  or  of  evil  twist,  souls  like  dead 
leaves  that  rot,  or  weeds  that  crowd  the  flowers  out, 


312 IN    BERKSHIRE    FIELDS 

hidden  by  no  kindly  snow,  stripped  by  no  winter 
frosts — the  welter  of  the  world  of  men !  How  strip 
them  all  down  to  their  naked  stalks?  How  show 
them  all  against  some  background  white  as  snow, 
that  what  is  beautiful  may  be  so  clearly  seen  that 
no  man  can  forget,  and  what  is  ugly,  that  all  men 
shall  turn  away  and  choose  the  plumes  and  aster 
stars? 

My  etched  world  has  led  me  far  afield,  and 
brought  me,  groping,  back  again,  unanswered  and 
unsatisfied.  Upon  their  bright  ^Egean  hills,  ages 
long  ago,  the  shepherds  watched  Orion  climb,  and 
gave  to  him,  no  doubt,  his  name.  War  came  and 
peace  came,  religions  rose  and  perished,  philosophers 
were  crowned — and  poisoned,  man  groped  for  light 
within  himself  and  freedom  in  his  universe,  poets 
sang  and  saints  perished.  Still  I  look  out  and  see 
Orion  hunting  the  game  flocks  of  the  stars.  Now 
he  has  forded  the  Milky  Way.  The  dog-star  is  in 
golden  cry  beneath  his  heels.  How  still  and  cold 
and  beautiful  is  the  night!  How  remote  those 
star-glints  from  our  troubled  earth!  How  keener 
far  than  man's  must  be  the  eye  that  sees  the  end 
and  meaning  of  it  all;  how  greater  far  the  hand 
that  etches  on  some  spirit  snow  the  weed-tops  of 
our  human  souls  and  makes  them  all  fair  at  last! 


THE   END 


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